


The Carrier III

by Rairora



Series: The Carrier [3]
Category: True Blood (TV)
Genre: F/M, carrier, five families, off-canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 47,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28934562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rairora/pseuds/Rairora
Summary: Let's keep going because it's fun to write and 2021 needs some distraction. Thanks for reading along - this work is part of a series, so please go back and start there.As with the previous stories, it's unapologetically un-canon. It uses Ms Harris' world as a springboard and I leap off from there. No summary because it contains spoilers for the previous story - so if you've worked through it, you know where we left off ... ;-) I'm always glad to read your comments, so feel free to say 'hello' and let me know you're reading along.The vampire state of Louisiana is on the brink of bankruptcy and its enemies are biding their time. Eric Northman's reputation has been tarnished and his consort has left him - and no one in authority is willing to believe that his neighbours are conspiring against him. Rather than sit back and wait for things to take their course, he decides to set things to rights himself.
Relationships: Eric Northman/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Carrier [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064453
Comments: 22
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

_**Five months previously**_

Eric slipped out of his stateroom, pulling the door silently closed behind him.  
From inside he heard their voices, rising to outraged shrieks – they hadn't even noticed him leave.  
He gritted his teeth and padded silently down the hall, shoes in hand, wondering where he could go in this wretched palace for some peace and quiet.

"Why, Eric," Pam drawled, rolling the 'r' of his name teasingly. "Leaving so soon? Have the fires of passion been extinguished so quickly?"  
She was standing in front of him, hand on her hip. Her long blond hair had been teased into an elaborate up-do and she was wearing a navy suit, just a tad too tight to be respectable.  
Seeing his confusion, Pam threw her head back and laughed, stalking along beside him, almost at his height in her towering stilettos.  
"Before you start, shut it down, Pamela," he growled.  
"Yeah, no, Eric. In which universe did you imagine _that_ was a good idea?" she asked, nodding back at the door he'd just come through.  
A woman screamed within, a scream of fury that made Eric wince.

When he'd returned from his disastrous trip to Ireland – jilted, humiliated, empty-handed – he'd ordered Pam to find him a woman.  
A beautiful woman.

"A fucking _stunning_ woman," he'd said, looking at her in the mirror.  
He was fiddling with his tie, trying to get it to sit right. She'd eyed him up and down witheringly, then pulled an imaginary pencil from behind her ear.  
" _A fucking stunning woman_ ," she repeated in a monotone, pretending to write it down.  
"- _two_ fucking stunning women," Eric said. "Make it two. And they'd better be beautiful, Pam. I want every man who sees them to turn green with envy. You got that?"  
" _Green with envy_ ," she said, her invisible pencil skittering across the invisible page. "Two fucking stunning women to show the rest of the American vampires that you don't give a shit about Magdalena Kennick. Got it, boss. Any preferences, any types?"  
"No red-heads," he said decisively.  
"Obviously."  
"And no blondes."  
Pamela paused. "No Sookie Stackhouse lookalikes, either?"  
"No!"  
"Fine, fine," she said mildly. "So we're going to reverse your public emasculation with a couple of raven-haired beauties? I can do that."  
"Pamela Swynford de Beaufort, I swear on all the gods ..."

She'd cackled gleefully, then pulled him around to face her, deftly re-tying his tie.  
"If that's what'll make you feel better," she said mildly, "then that's what I will do. It's not for nothing that I ran the best whorehouse in San Francisco, you know."  
She gave him one of her rare, soft smiles and he touched her cheek in gratitude.  
"One more thing," he said. "I want them... dumb."  
" _Dumb_?"  
"You know, not very smart. Not bright." He shrugged. "I just don't have the energy for high-maintenance women right now."  
Pamela's smile disappeared and she arched an eyebrow.  
"You _are_ joking, I presume?"  
"Two dumb, beautiful women," he'd said, turning away to check himself in the mirror once more. The tie was perfect. "How hard can it be?"

And Pamela had appeared to have come up trumps.  
Neve was a tall, dark-skinned young woman whose only occupation had ever been tending to her appearance. She'd left school at 14 to devote herself to it full-time and studied nail-polish and cosmetic trends with unwavering commitment. She had an Instagram account, a YouTube channel, thousands of Facebook followers and Eric quickly found that he was an unwitting star of her self-made reality series: Pamela had shown him a picture of his naked backside on Neve's Instagram account with a plethora of hashtags that seemed to all involve the word 'booty'.  
Appalled, he'd read through the dozens of comments, terrified that he would find something from the court of Texas or one of the other neighbouring states. He was enough of a laughing stock as it was.

So he had learned to confiscate her phone when she entered his rooms, something that made her bored and fractious within minutes , snapping at him and Evlere, her companion. They two of them had been friends for long enough to assess each other's weakness, then they'd begun a vicious war to establish their pecking order in Eric's life. 

The other woman was just as beautiful as Neve, but she had come to New Orleans from her home in a trailer park outside Baton Rouge and thought she'd won the jackpot when Pamela had spotted her at a nightclub in the city. At first she'd been awed by Neve's internet _savoir-faire_ but she'd quickly understood that Neve tried Eric's nerves with her demands and nagging, so she liked to talk to him in a baby-doll voice, flicking her hair and batting her eyelashes.  
It might have been sweet a few hundred years ago, but Eric found her wiles tedious, and watching her pout made him dig his fingernails into his own palms.

Admittedly, he'd found their competing for his attention rather flattering at first, a balm for his bruised ego, but after a time he began to suspect that they were more concerned with getting one up on each other than pleasing him.  
And that, quite frankly, was _not_ what he'd wanted. 

What he'd wanted that evening was a straightforward threesome but instead he'd found himself a buffer, a bulwark that was taking a constant battering. That very evening, he'd found himself in the middle of a quarrel about who should get to sit on his right-hand side at the next banquet and – apparently a greater cause for rage - who had first dibs on the silver BMW that was provided for their use. 

When the shrieking had started, he had slid out of the bed and tiptoed out of the room.  
"You promised me two dumb women," he said to Pam, walking faster so she'd have to hurry – and hopefully topple over in her high-heels.  
But no such luck: she kept pace.  
"They seem dumb enough to me," she said insouciantly.  
_Gods damn it,_ Eric thought.  
He was beginning to suspect that Pamela had done it on purpose.  


"They're scheming, tiresome vixens," he snapped. "Being with them drains my energy. Grates on my last nerve. Makes me want to skewer my ears with silver. Get where I'm going with this?"  
"You wanted a pair of pretty concubines," she said. "I delivered. I doubt that either of them is capable of _spelling_ 'concubine', which is the kind of woman I thought you wanted."  
"I ordered two low-maintenance lovers," he growled, standing still so Pam had to almost spin on her heel. "Two pretty idiots. And I got two shrews, intent on wrecking my head with their bitching and quarrelling. Two pretty idiots. Is that too hard to understand?"

She looked at him in that disdainful way of hers.  
"Oh, I understand perfectly, darling," she said. "And I may have a solution for you. There's a company that supplies silicon dolls for the sole purpose of adult entertainment. Should I go ahead and order a couple for you? You can fuck your frustration out on them and they're guaranteed to say not a word, just stare at you adoringly. I think that more or less fulfils your criteria, am I right?"  
Eric tried to stare her down, but the thunderous gaze that worked on everyone else was met with equanimity by Pam.  
He gave in; he knew this was a battle he would not win. 

"What did you want?" he asked, changing the subject.

Pamela must've needed something; her own suite was at the back of the palace with the rest of the staff's rooms. It was where the apartment he'd shared with Magdalena was, but when he'd returned to New Orleans, he'd walked out of their home and into the former Queen's apartment, much to the chagrin of the hotel staff. Under Magdalena's direction, the former Queen's rooms had been turned into a profitable rental suite, providing much-needed income for the vampire state of Louisiana. Magdalena'd been the one that had persuaded him to move into the much smaller and far more modest one-bedroom apartment that had previously housed one of the palace hotel's managers, pointing out that she'd need a kitchen and a bathroom with a functioning toilet.  
Not to mention the fact that she needed the Queen's suite to turn a profit.  
She'd always had her eye on the state budget; Louisiana was the most prestigious vampire state but also one of the poorest and under her tight direction, they'd been trying to pull their accounts back into the black. 

With her gone, Eric had defiantly moved back into the most luxurious suite, one that was appropriate for his station and devoid of any trace of the red-haired woman's presence.  
Seeing Eric's possessions being carried through the double doors of the Regal Suite, Mr Montgomery had flapped and clucked and tut-tutted, suggesting perhaps a somewhat less imposing residence, as it were, but Eric had thundered at him,  
" _Am I not the king?_ "  
And Montgomery had slinked away, plainly unhappy with the turn things had taken.  
Their butler was openly mourning the loss of the king's consort, fulfilling his duties with a glum look on his face and lacklustre attention to his tasks, sighing wistfully whenever he was in Eric's earshot.

"So what _did_ you want, Pam?" he asked again.  
"Your legal team is here," she said.  
"Good news?" he barked.  
He wanted good news, he wanted good news at last _so badly_.  
She grimaced.  
"Frankly, no," she said. "Do you want a summary?"  
"No, I really don't, but I guess I'd rather hear it from you."

She paused.  
"Texas denies everything. Everyone denies everything. If someone took your consort, then it was clearly a rogue vampire or rogue vampires. No vampire in Texas' employ will admit to having been involved, and you can forget about that snake in Oklahoma – he's so far up Texas' ass, he's headbutting his liver."  
"No witnesses? Not a single person willing to come forward?"  
"Jessica Fortenberry is, apparently, a biased witness – she's your sheriff, who's going to believe her? And humans?" Pamela snorted. "When has the Vampire Authority ever considered a human a reliable witness? Can you imagine Jason Stackhouse under oath?"  
"No," Eric muttered. "But I can imagine Sookie."

She shook her head.  
"Do you really want vampires to know that Sookie Stackhouse can't be glamoured?"  
He really did not.  
He set off again down the corridor towards the stairs, but Pam put her hand on his arm.  
"Eric," she said softly, "The biggest problem is Maggie. She was returned to you unharmed. In fact, there's a lingering doubt as to whether she was taken in the first place or just went with them. You two have ... broken up and gone your separate ways – she's no longer your consort. As far as the Authority is concerned, it's kind of a case of _no harm, no foul_."  
"Texas conspired against me," Eric hissed.  
"You have no witnesses," she repeated. "No witnesses, Eric. Any action you take against Texas will be considered unprovoked and hostile. You have to back down. Live to fight another day."

He considered it, frowning. Pam grinned at him.  
"What now?" he snapped.  
"Your bulgy eyes," she said. "Maggie used to warn us if you were in a temper – she'd say, 'His eyes are bulging! The vein is popping!' and everyone would scamper out of your way."  
Eric glared at her, silently daring her to say the words.  
But Pam was fearless:  
"I miss her," she said, her chin jutting out.  
"Well, _I_ don't," Eric said and started down the stairs, two at a time. 

From behind them, they heard the stateroom door slam and one of his women yelled, "Eric! Errrrric!"  
He hurried down the stairs, his long legs taking two steps at a time.  
" _Du saknar henne!_ " Pamela called, leaning over the banisters, as though speaking Swedish would make him confess.  
" _Jag saknar henne ... inte!_ " he called defiantly over his shoulder.  
He did not miss her. He did not miss her. He did not.  
"Liar!" she shouted and when he looked up, she just shook her head reproachfully.


	2. Chapter 2

"Boss wants to see you," one of the valets said.

Patrick Montgomery froze, his fingers pinching a leaf in the flower arrangement he had been fixing for the front foyer.   
He caught himself quickly; he didn't want to show fear in front of the lower orders.

"What does he want?" he asked casually.  
"Dunno," the valet replied. "He's got a few old books out and the White Witch is there, too."  
"Hush," Montgomery said crossly. "That's not very respectful, is it?"

The White Witch.   
That's what the staff called Pamela de Beaufort behind her back; in fact, Montgomery himself had started it when she'd first moved in, striding around and throwing her weight about. In the meantime, however, they'd found some common ground and he'd begrudgingly come to respect her – and had earned her equally begrudging respect in return. Now all he had to do was to stomp out the nickname he'd come up with, but it had spread like wildfire throughout the staff, to the extent that they often simply referred to her as 'WW'. He could only hope and pray it would never be traced back to him or their fragile friendship would flounder before it had a chance to flourish.

Outside the stateroom – the sumptuous apartment whose redecoration he had overseen – he straightened his jacket and his spine. Then he knocked discreetly and opened the door.

King Eric was sitting at his desk, with Pamela de Beaufort perched on barstool beside him.   
Montgomery looked discreetly around. Through the open bedroom door he saw the messy bed, but no sign of the two women that had been hanging around the king's quarters for the past few weeks like a pair of banshees.  
He heaved a silent sigh of relief.

"Your Majesty?" he enquired politely.  
The king had had his hair cut, it was short, sticking up in tufts. It made him look younger, his face more angular and hard.  
"You have served a number of monarchs, I believe," Eric said, getting straight to the point.  
Montgomery had come to realise that the king had a quick mind and a quicker tongue. He did not take kindly to circuitousness, so the butler answered directly:   
"Indeed, your majesty. I was with Queen Sophie Anne for many decades and served Queen Catherine all the time she was on the throne."  
"But not Compton?"  
"King William was intent on taking his court to northern Louisiana, sire, and I wanted to stay here."

It was a half-truth.   
William Compton, with all the charm of a proper Southern gentleman, had suggested Montgomery's services might be superfluous in his vision of the Louisianan court, the pared-down monarchy run out of Compton's family home in the bayou.   
But then King William had been able to make most things sound agreeable, even being fired.

"I am looking at these ledgers," King Eric said, "looking at the accounts for the Kingdom of Louisiana and I'm at a loss to understand how we got so deep in the fucking shit. Pamela here thinks you might be able to enlighten me."  
Montgomery was speechless. He looked at Pam, unable to understand why she'd just thrown him under the bus.  
"Patrick," she said in a gentle voice, "you can speak openly here. I promise, nothing you say will be held against you. The king needs to pull his head out of his ass and you might be able to help him understand the lie of the land."  
"Well, sire," he began, floundering, "well, I suppose things started to unravel with Queen Sophie Anne. For a long time there was no clear distinction made between her personal finances and the finances of the state, and when her personal spending got out of control, she took to – "

He stopped, appalled.   
Eric was staring at him, cold-eyed.   
Sophie Anne, capricious and sneaky, had started selling her blood and Mr Montgomery suddenly remembered that she'd charged her sheriffs with selling it - Mr Northman, now King Eric, included.   
He licked his lips nervously.

"She took to ... finding alternative income streams," Montgomery finished weakly.  
Eric nodded. "And King William? How did he deal with Sophie Anne's debt?"  
"One of her majesty's greatest expenses had always been her residences. She preferred to rent, not buy, as she liked to move every few years and she had no time for the intricacies of real estate. If she wanted a new house, she wanted one now."  
Or a new villa with a dedicated day-light room, complete with Grecian columns and a heated swimming pool. Her final residence had cost an eye-watering sum and she had barely lived there for half a year before she'd met the True Death.

"So Compton moving back to his own house cut down on one of the state's major expenses?" Eric asked, leaning forward to consult one of the papers before him.  
"Indeed," Montgomery concurred.  
Eric read silently, his mouth twisted in distaste, one of his large fingers running down through a list of figures that contained rather too much red for anyone's liking.

"Do you think Compton was a good king?" Eric asked suddenly, looking up.  
Was it a trap? Montgomery looked from him to Pamela and back.   
She nodded her head encouragingly.  
"Initially, yes," the butler answered. "But then things got – "  
"- weird?" Eric finished.  
"- fucked up?" Pam supplied helpfully.  
"- things got out of hand," he said.  
Eric looked at him and inclined his head thoughtfully, stroking his chin.

"And Queen Catherine? How did she persuade the banks to give her an enormous loan to build this monstrosity?" Eric asked. "Did they not look at their books? Louisiana is up to the hilt in debt and has been since ... since the 1970s, as far as I can see."  
"Your Majesty," he said, treading carefully, "for all her faults, Queen Catherine could be very persuasive and she had a vision. One that a lot of vampires in this part of Louisiana found very exciting, very inspiring."  
"Oh? How so?"  
"She wanted a return to our former glory; she wanted New Orleans to be known as the vampire capital of the world. And for that, a vampire queen needs a vampire palace."  
"Hmm. Make Louisiana Great Again?" Eric asked sardonically.  
"She had a long-term plan," Montgomery added quickly, keen to defend his former employer. "She knew that people like pomp and circumstance and that's what she'd wanted to create."

She knew this because this is what he'd taught her. Montgomery, an avid fan of the British Royal Family, had shown her videos, news footage, photographs – a monarchy that has to justify its existence is a doomed monarchy.   
A monarch, he had told her, must be aloof. Shrouded in mystique. Generating an income, even if it's just in the sales of trinkets and souvenirs.   
And Catherine had instantly understood. Many of the other states – New York and Texas, for example – were far wealthier, but Louisiana had ... New Orleans.  
"New Orleans has vampire history," he'd whispered to the queen. "Vampire legends. Vampire lore. How can New York compare with that?"

Catherine, instinctively, knew what he meant and pretty soon plans were underfoot to construct the neo-gothic palace that was suppose to hearken back to eerie New Orleans' history – a pinch of the French Quarter, a dab of Buckingham Palace. It was to become a tourist magnet, part-palace and part-hotel. Feel like a queen yourself in one of the exclusive vampire-themed suites! Rub shoulders with real vamps in the blood-red restaurant! Listen to an undead orchestra playing creole tunes!   
It was a potential goldmine.

He came out of his short reverie to find Pam and Eric staring at him curiously.  
"And what did Miss Kennick think of this vision?" the king asked, picking the words carefully, like chocolates from a box.  
"She understood it, Your Majesty. She knew what Catherine had been aiming for. She'd grown up in Emperor Charles' court, sire, she understood how a monarchy must work."

He could've said much more but he didn't.   
Talking about Miss Kennick made him sad; she was one of the few humans he felt he could ever feel affection for. She knew what he wanted to do and she'd taken it one step further, working tirelessly to reach out to local Louisianan organisations, trying to promote better cooperation between the vampire and human community. Before she'd been taken, she'd been working on a plan to organise vampire support for a homeless shelter in the city ("Vampires are up all night anyway, right? They might as well be doing something productive"), hoping it would bring some positive publicity.

"Down the line," she'd said, "I'm hoping this might help us lure some European royalty over here for a visit."  
"European?" he'd said, swallowed, added hopefully: "Maybe British?"  
"I'd hope so," she'd grinned impishly. "The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. Or the Sussexes – they're always visiting charities and whatnot. They could visit our charity, don't you think? What a PR coup that would be for us."  
He'd clutched his chest in ecstasy.   
"Kate Middleton here?" he'd cried. " _Here_? With _us_?"  
"Why not?"  
And she'd squeezed his arm affectionately.   
He hadn't doubted for an instant that she would certainly try her best to make it happen – she had the kind of energy that the court needed.

"You've been very helpful," Pamela said. "Thank you, Patrick."  
"One more question," Eric said. "What kind of king do you think _I_ make?"  
"I – eh, sire, I –"  
If he were human, his underarms would be sweat-soaked. Of this the butler was sure.  
"I hear we've lost quite a few members of staff," Eric suddenly said, with an abrupt volte-face. "Is this true?"  
"Yes, I'm afraid it is."  
"Why?"  
"Well – eh, I, um –"  
"Say it as it is, man," Eric said. "You heard what Pam said."

He stood up and came around the desk, so he could sit on its edge, directly in front of Mr Montgomery.  
"You are the fourth monarch in less than a decade," Montgomery said slowly. "At first, the staff thought you showed great promise. You and Miss Kennick seemed to have a firm hold of the reins, but things seem, once again, to be ... getting out of hand."  
"So they want Magdalena back?"  
"Your Majesty, they want _Louisiana_ back. They want the state to be run properly. They want a king who is focussed on the task at hand. This is not an easy job to do and, frankly, if you don't wish to do it correctly, we would all rather you abdicated and allowed someone else to do it."

He could almost hear Pamela wince, but he could not take his eyes off Eric's face. The seconds seemed like hours; he kept his eyes locked on the king, ready to spring if the monarch sprang to rip the head from his shoulders.  
"Hmm," Eric said.   
He stood upright, to his full height, towering almost a full head above the butler. Montgomery raised his eyes to the monarch's.  
"Thank you for your insights," the king said. "I appreciate your honesty."  
Patrick felt relief wash over him.

Eric paced up and down, chewing a thumbnail; thinking.   
"I have let things slide, I admit," he said to no one in particular.   
Pamela looked over at Montgomery and the older vampire saw a glimmer of hope in her face.  
Eric spun around.   
"That will have to change," he announced. "Texas is watching Louisiana circle the drain and the kingdom is not going to fail on my watch."  
Pam's face split into a broad grin.  
"About time," she muttered.  
Eric ignored her.

"Mr Montgomery," the king said, "We're going to get this place back in order. I want to take Texas down and I want enough financial retribution to make his eyes water."  
"And how do you propose to do that?" Pam interrupted.  
"I need to find that bastard, Corbyn, but first I have to get Magdalena back."  
"She won't talk to you," Pamela said. "Neither will the Empress or any of her family."  
"Her mother will," Eric said with certainty. "And if I can get to her mother, I can get to her."  
"And persuade her to come back?" Pam said, her voice dripping with doubt.  
"Yes," her maker said firmly. "We'll get things back on an even keel, Pam, then I'm leaving for Europe. You and Montgomery can take over for a few months."

Patrick Montgomery felt his heart swell.  
"Will you really be returning with Miss Kennick?" he asked bravely, hardly daring to hope.  
Eric glanced at Pamela, who arched an elegant eyebrow.  
"Yes," he said decisively.   
Pam rolled her eyes wordlessly.

"Hurrah!" Montgomery cheered. "Good news, sire, jolly good news. And if Miss Kennick is to return, should I get rid of those ... women for you?"  
Eric looked at him, startled, and one of his rare grins spread across his face.  
"Get _rid_ of them?" he repeated, amused. "Like, straight away?"  
"Whenever you wish, majesty," Montgomery said. "The sooner, the better I should think."  
"And how do you plan to do it?" Eric asked, amused.  
Montgomery shrugged. He had a few ideas as to how to do so. Disaffected wretches.  
"I don't mean to spoil your fun, but it would probably suffice if you simply glamoured them and sent them on their way," Eric said, still smiling.  
"Consider it done," the butler said cheerfully.   
This was one task he would certainly enjoy.

"And when you're finished, could you make an appointment with the guy from the Chamber of Commerce?" Eric said. "And I'm going to want to talk to someone from the bank, too. Can you arrange that?"  
"Certainly, sire!" Montgomery could hardly keep the joy out of his voice. 

He left the room as one should in the presence of a monarch, never turning his back on the king, but he paused at the door to beam at Pamela and give Eric a thumbs-up.   
The king smiled, nodded in acknowledgement, and then turned back to his ledgers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Ballygar, Co. Galway, Ireland**  
**Present Day**

When I got off the phone with Eric, my hands were shaking.  
I wasn't sure why - shock? Fury? Fear?  
He'd gone to my house, he'd glamoured _my mother_.  
And he might be on his way to me!  
My trembling hands patted down my pockets, looking frantically for my car keys, while my head raced. I was going to get into my car and drive to Dublin and I was going to - I was going to -  
Do what?  
It took a sheer effort of will to calm myself down. Eric would be long gone by the time I got to Dublin, off on his wild-goose chase to find Hraefn or Corbyn or whatever name he went by now.  
_It could be weeks before he got to me, months even,_ I reasoned. _Calm down, Maggie, he's not going to turn up at the door tomorrow morning._

But as soon as I hung up, something changed: my feeling of safety. He knew where I was.  
In my head it felt like someone had turned over an hourglass, and now the sand was trickling down, drawing my time in Ballygar to a close. While I might have successfully lived an anonymous life in Dublin, it was next to impossible in this village. Ballygar was tiny – and I mean _tiny_. It was literally a crossroads with a church, a pub-slash-grocery shop and a scattering of houses. Petra and Imelda's business venture at the Big House was its sole tourist attraction, and the three of us were known far and wide in rural Galway. We were a bit of an attraction ourselves, the locals couldn’t quite figure out what was going on: a pair of lesbians and me. Was I their daughter? Their niece? Romantically involved? 

I’m pretty certain we’d not only been providing food for lunch but food for gossip for months and months; people I’d never met before knew my name, gave me knowing smiles when I stopped on the road to pet their dog or queued to pay for milk at the village shop. Eric would only need to stop at the pub and ask about a red-headed Dubliner and at least seven villagers would personally escort him to Ballygar House within five minutes.  
And this, my friends, is no exaggeration. 

Now that he knew where I was, I was being pushed to make a decision I had been too lazy to make. I liked Ballygar, I liked my job. I liked walking through the fields in the morning with one of the dogs in tow, I liked polishing floors and I could even produce an edible batch of scones. Although I'd never planned to stay so long, the months had stretched into a year, and then crept over the twelve-month mark. The large house was being pulled back from the brink of ruin, metre by metre, and I liked the feeling that I was helping to make that happen. It now had five rentable guestrooms and a dining room that had been lovingly restored to a fraction of its former glory on a shoestring budget. The bathrooms were functioning; water was generally hot – hott _ish_ , maybe – and we had made sure that none of the guests’ bedrooms had leaks. (Any more.) 

We’d had our first guests and they’d been charmed by the old house and its history, and the three of us – Petra, Imelda and I – had bent over backwards to make them feel welcome. It had paid off with our first glowing reviews: Imelda had produced a bottle of sparkling wine and we'd toasted our future success. But my heart wasn’t in it; considering I had almost worked my fingers to the bone to get this creaky old house back on its feet, I should’ve been bursting with joy. 

Instead, that phone call had given me a feeling of residual dread, like a headache you wake up with, one you cannot shake.  
I waited a couple of days, then arranged a weekend off to visit my parents, leaving early Friday morning so I could have lunch with my mother before my father came home from work. I worried all the way to Dublin about what I should say to her, how I should broach the topic - but I needn’t have worried. When we sat down to eat our lunch – scrambled eggs and baked beans (“Your favourite!” my mother said. Yes, when I was eleven, but the thought was appreciated) – I introduced the topic delicately.

“Have you had any vampire visitors recently?” I asked. “Anyone ... ahem... unusual?”  
She put down her fork, dismayed.  
“Oh, dear,” she said. “Did he tell you? Oh, my.”  
“Who?”  
“Eric Northman.”  
I almost choked on my eggs.

“You _know_ he was here?” I spluttered.  
“Of course. Sure, didn’t I invite him in?”  
“Mum!”  
“Ah, Maggie. You should have seen him. He was just standing there on the front step in the rain, all sad and everything, poor wee thing. I know he’s a bit of a scoundrel, but he’s been through a lot as well and he misses you _so much_ – “  
“That fucker glamoured you,” I snapped.

She reeled – at the bad language or the glamouring? Not sure.  
“He did not!” she said.  
Then in a wobbly voice, “Did he?”

I told her about the phone call and she grew indignant.  
“That pup!” she said. “And I invited him and all. I even gave him a blood – and a real Tru Blood, not one of the knock-offs your father is always making me buy from Aldi. And it wasn’t any old Tru Blood, it was an _AB_! One of the _expensive_ ones!”  
She shook her head in disgust.  
“I made him promise he wouldn’t try any tricks before I invited him in. And what did he go and do? Glamour me. That ... that _brat_.”

My mother couldn’t bring herself to call him anything worse, but I knew she was tempted.  
“Sneaky motherfucker,” I said, to help her out.  
She battled with herself before she said, “Yes, yes, he is.”  
And then she squeezed my hand and said, “I’m so sorry, Maggie. I just felt sorry for him, that’s all. He really seems to miss you, you know. When he talked about you, he got all shy.”  
“There’s no need to feel sorry for him. And I doubt he’s missing me all that much,” I countered, angrier than ever with him. “He’s been shagging left, right and centre since I left.”

Her cheeks pinkened.  
“How do you know that?” she cried.  
“His blood,” I muttered. “I can feel ... stuff. He hasn’t been sitting at home learning to knit or taking up wood-turning, believe me.”  
My mother grew a little flustered.  
“That sounds terrible,” she said. “You poor thing. I didn’t realise it was that bad.”  
I shook my head. 

“It’s worse,” I said. “Imagine breaking up with someone and everywhere you went, you smelled his aftershave. You know, in a store. Or passing another man on a street wearing the same cologne. That’s what it’s like, except it’s not only a scent but a feeling. I mean, I could be on my hands and knees, scratching dirt out of the cracks of a floorboard with a butter knife and suddenly I just get his smell, his smell fills the room, and I know ... I know what he’s up to.”  
And the dreams.  
God, the _dreams_.  
Waking in the morning, sweat-soaked and disoriented, my hand feeling across the cold sheets for his colder body.  
It was like a haunting, like a hangover.

“I’m so sorry,” she said again.  
“It’ll go away,” I said, returning my attention to my baked beans. “Eventually, I guess.”  
“It’s been nearly a year and a half,” my mother pointed out. “Shouldn’t it be gone by now?”  
I gave her a wry grin.  
"I'd hoped so," I said, "but apparently not."

My mother squeezed my hand.  
“Times like this, I wish I could be glamoured,” I muttered. "It'd make everything so much less painful."  
She ate a mouthful of toast and then cleared her throat.  
“You could be,” she said.  
“I can’t. Dad can’t either. It’s our superpower, dontcha know.”  
“Well,” she said, lowering her voice, “you actually can.”

I leaned back in my chair, flabbergasted.  
“I don’t believe you.”  
“You can,” she insisted. “But you’d have to be really, really drunk. I mean: _really_ drunk. I don’t know how you all do it, but it’s like you have the willpower to resist their hypnosis. I’ve seen truly ancient vampires try it on your father and he stares them down, not a problem for him. But I saw Charles glamour him once when he was off his ear on whiskey.”  
“Emperor Charles?” I asked.  
“Yes, we had a poker game here one night – oh, decades ago. You were just a baby at the time. Your father, James, your granddad, Charles and your grandmother. Charles lost and he was a pretty sore loser, do you remember? Well, he filled your father up with an ancient whiskey he’d got back before Ireland became a Free State and your father could barely stand up, let alone put up his glamour defences. Charles glamoured him and the debt was forgotten.”  
“And granddad let him do that?”  
“Ah, sure, it was all in the spirit of fun,” my mother laughed. “Charles would’ve never let anyone know what he’d done; he loved your father like his own son. He just couldn't bear to lose, the rascal.”

Realisation dawned slowly.  
“So what you’re saying is that I could down a bottle of Jameson and we could get some vampire to wipe my memory? No more Eric Northman, no Ilaria, no Stephen, no Louisiana?”  
She shrugged.  
“If that’s what you wanted,” she said, “I’m sure Moya would do it for you and be discreet about it. I’m quite certain she’d love you to forget you ever met Eric Northman in the first place.”

My mind raced: a blank slate. I would be like a blank slate.  
I could say goodbye to Petra and Imelda and move on; maybe find a job in Belfast or London. I could live an unencumbered life; meet another man that I might learn to love, without being haunted by a half-memory of long limbs entwined in mine, the smell of sweet apples and sea-salt. The vampire court of Louisiana would mean nothing to me, it wouldn’t even exist within the realm of my consciousness. 

And even if he did find me, he would mean nothing to me. There would be nothing there, nothing between us. I could just walk away -

“Just say the word,” my mother said. “I have a bottle of whiskey around here somewhere.”  
“No,” I answered reflexively.  
She patted my hand.  
“Think about it,” she said. “You could leave him behind and finally get on with your life, instead of being in the limbo you find yourself now.”  
My mother smiled at me kindly.  
“Just say the word,” she said again. “And Eric Northman will be gone forever.”  
She snapped her fingers as though it were a magic trick.


	4. Chapter 4

My father and the Empress surveyed my work silently and shook their heads.

"This is a bad idea," my father said glumly, looking at the dining room table.  
It was covered in Post-It notes, each containing something or someone I needed to forget.   
He pointed at a few and read them aloud: " _Shreveport. Sookie Stackhouse. Jason Stackhouse. Ilaria Moore's disappearance. Stephen Hofmann. Vampire Kings of Ohio, Arkansas, Texas, the Islands, New York. Bon Temps & the bar in Bon Temps with the funny name. Sheriff of Area 5, Jessica Somebody and her big husband._ Why do you need to forget the sheriff of Area 5? Sure, you can't remember her name as it is."

"Dad, it's part of my elaborate plan," I said, trying not to slur my words.   
I had begun drinking at suppertime, and had had more than a few glasses of wine.   
I'd gone past Effusive Maggie – where I'd repeatedly told my patient mother how much I loved her, my father, my grandparents, everyone I'd ever met. Eric Northman. I looooooved Eric Northman! Loved him!   
Except I hated Eric Northman. Hated him, loathed him. Despised him. Yeah, to _hell_ with him.   
Which pushed me over into Maudlin Maggie, who was a lot less fun. I cried a lot, then drank some more and then became Feisty Maggie, who told my mother that I couldn't care less about Eric Northman.   
Fuck him. Yeah, like, fuck him. I didn't give a shit about him any more. I was an independent woman.   
I may or may not have started singing Beyoncé at that point, but it didn't last long because I couldn't get beyond, "All the single ladies! All the single ladies!" but I felt very empowered for a while.

By the time my father pulled up at the front door with the Empress in the passenger seat of his Volkswagen, I had transitioned into Loquacious Maggie.   
With an elaborate flourish, I explained the complicated plan I had concocted for my glamouring: I'd compiled a list of anyone I could think of from my time in the US, coming up with a watertight backstory – because that was the tricky thing with glamouring. You had to make sure there were no loose threads, nothing that would unravel a careful story. I had come up with something that was close enough to the truth to withstand prodding: I'd gone to the US with the Empress for the international conference on the Vampire Charter, and the Queen of Louisiana had asked me to stay on to work in their archive department as part of her day-staff. I'd continued when the new King had taken over, but as I had worked during the day, I didn't know him or the other vampires, had only seen them briefly from afar. 

I'd basically been a lowly liaison officer, compiling archival material and working with local organisations to help improve vampire/human relations.   
This is what I told my parents and the Empress, and they responded by looking ... thoughtful.

"I don't think it will work," the Empress said finally. "Even if I do manage to glamour you, it's just too much information to feed you with."  
"And if you do manage to get you to forget all of this," my father said, waving a hand at the table, "what's to say you haven't forgotten someone or something else?"

I didn't want to admit it, but I also had a niggling feeling that I had left something out.  
"This is the most important stuff," I said resolutely and picked up two sticky notes to show them.   
One had ERIC NORTHMAN written on it, the other had HRAEFN/RAPHAEL NORTH/CORBYN. I had highlighted them in green marker to show that they, above all, were essential. 

The Empress took the sticky note with HRAEFN/RAPHAEL NORTH/CORBYN written on it and stared at it before replacing it on the table.  
"And what if either of these vampires should find you?" she asked quietly.  
"That's just it," I said, "I want you to undo whatever their blood did to me. I want you to tell me I feel nothing for them. I'm not interested in them, I'm not attracted to them. They _repulse_ me."  
"I don't think I can do that," the Empress said, shaking her head. "Apart from the fact that your family will always have close contact to vampires, we have enough haters without adding another to the ranks."  
"Just make her forget them," my mother chimed in softly. "She's had to go through enough without suffering the after-effects of their blood. Just set her free."

I looked at her gratefully and smiled.   
She smiled back, but she looked amused, rather than tender: I was probably cross-eyed already. My head was certainly starting to spin.

"Very well," the Empress said. "And what will you do after this?"  
"I'm going to hand in my notice and find a new job," I said. 

While still sober, I had emailed Mr Montgomery and asked him for a reference, explaining what I wanted. He would know that 'Live-In Lover', 'Mistress' or 'Royal Consort' were not likely to snag me a decent job; I knew I could count on him to describe my tasks in a more employer-friendly way and had given him a few suggestions as to how to phrase my job in a way that didn't sound utterly insane to anyone who'd never worked in a royal court. I'd hand in my notice, do a couple more weeks with Petra and Imelda and then move somewhere else. Start over.  
Again.

"And what if Northman finds you?" asked my mother with a you-know-what-I-mean glint in her eye. We hadn't told anyone about his visit and it would remain our secret.  
"He won't," I said shortly.

I knew Eric: in his systematic and thorough way, he would track the dark vampire down, leaving no stone unturned. I figured he'd need months to find Hraefn, if ever he did, and knowing how he liked to tie up loose ends neatly, only then would he come to Ballygar to find me. But I intended to be long gone and far away before that happened.

"And what if that other fella comes looking for you?" my father asked.  
"He won't," the Empress said.   
I looked at her and she held my gaze, evenly, steadfastly.   
"I will make sure of it," she said.

"Fine," said my father, breaking the silence. "Let's get it over with, then. I suppose the worst that can happen is that she'll have a raging hangover tomorrow."  
The Empress cleared her throat and placed her cold hands on my cheeks. She stared deep into my eyes.  
"Magdalena," she said in a low, cooing voice. "Can you hear me, Magdalena?"  
"Yes," I said. And smiled at her. "Your fingers are freezing."  
The Empress dropped her hands.   
"It's not working," she said shortly.

Wordlessly, my mother turned to the sideboard and extracted a bottle of Jamesons. She poured me a generous glass of whiskey and put it on the table in front of me.  
" _Sláinte,_ " she said.  
"Cheers," I replied, even as my stomach flopped in protest.  
"When you're finished, we'll try again," the Empress said. "Drink, Magdalena. I think you're going to have to get a lot drunker than that."


	5. Chapter 5

And then - 

I must've got the 'flu at my parents' house.   
I woke up the next day and I felt wretched. I crawled to the bathroom and spilled the contents of my stomach down the toilet. My mother appeared in the doorway and silently handed me a wet cloth when I was done.  
"Are you okay, love?" she asked gently, but even her soft voice grated on my brain like nails on a chalkboard.  
"Nooo!" I moaned. "I feel like death warmed up! You'd swear I'd been drinking all night long!"  
"Mmm," she said in a manner I found most uncaring, and then took the washcloth off me. As though I were a small child, she washed my faced and neck, then made me brush my teeth and helped me back into bed.

"Will you call the doctor?" I croaked from beneath the safety of my duvet.  
She hesitated on the threshold of the room.  
"I think you'll be fine in a day or two," she said. "Just get some sleep."  
"You're a bad mother," I grumbled. "I feel like I'm dying."  
"You'll get over it," she said. 

x x x 

While I was recovering, a registered letter arrived from Louisiana and when I opened it, I was delighted to find a glowing reference from my old employer, Mr Montgomery. He'd attached a kind note saying how much he missed me and how he hoped that I would some day return to take up my old post.   
It was very kind of him, but my job in Louisiana had been pretty dull. I mean, you'd think that working with vampires, especially a vampire king, would be kind of thrilling. Sexy. Glamorous. Well, if you work on their day staff, you basically never see them: I had always finished work long before most of them rose. I don't think I ever saw the king face to face, to be honest - I had a very vague memory of him being some lanky guy with a crooked nose. I'd spent my days doing pretty much the same thing my uncle James does for the Empress, compiling statistics and updating a database of vampires: where they lived, who they lived with and – most importantly - where they had to pay tax. Nope, no way I'd want to go back to that.

After a week of being looked after by my mother's patented brand of tough love, ("You're grand, get out of bed and stop whinging"), I drove back to Ballygar and spoke to my employers about the plans I'd hatched while in Dublin. They were very gracious; they said that they'd never reckoned on my staying so long anyway and that they hoped I would find a job doing something I loved.   
Oh, yes, I had all kinds of plans: I wanted to work in academia again, I hoped I could find something at a museum, installation, national heritage site – certainly, I applied everywhere I could. I sent off dozens of applications all over the British Isles and did a few Skype interviewa, which I thought went very well. I wrote to people I had met at conferences and workshops, hoping to get some leads or learn of positions due to open in the near future.

Petra helped me scan in all of my documents and read aloud my certificates as I typed in addresses and filled in online forms.  
"So Kennick is your maiden name, then?" she said. "Will you be dropping Kennedy now?"  
"Yes," I said automatically.   
Was Kennedy my married name? It was a bit weird, I could picture my ex-husband but suddenly had difficulty remembering his name. Although, to be fair, I hadn't seen him in years.  
But, still.  
"And your first name is Magdalena?" she'd said. "I thought you said it was Margaret."  
"Did I?" I said. "I probably did. Magdalena is such a ridiculous name. Who's called Magdalena nowadays?"

I laughed it off, but when I went upstairs that evening, I looked in the drawer where I kept all of my personal items. I had a pair of diamond earrings that I couldn't remember getting and two passports with identical photos. One had my real name on it, Magdalena Maria Kennick, but the other one was issued to Margaret Kennedy and the birthdate was different. Was that the passport with my married name? Why was the birthdate wrong? Why was I registered as Margaret, not Magdalena? Had it been mistakenly issued and I had kept it as a curiosity? I just didn't know.

I ran my finger over the photo, looked at the holograms. It seemed real enough. Why did I have a fake passport? Where did it come from?   
The fact that I had holes in my memory was chilling. I wrote down FAKE PASSPORT and DIAMOND EARRINGS on the list I was keeping in the notebook by my bed, a list of oddities that I had been noticing.   
Maybe it was early onset Alzheimer's? That started when you were young, right?   
I felt a trickle of ice run down my back and wondered whether I should make an appointment with a doctor - 

There was a knock on the door.  
"The vampires have just checked out," Imelda said, popping her head around the door. "In case you want to go downstairs."  
We had one vampire room and, very rarely, vampire guests. Being a carrier, I didn't want any of them to get a whiff of my blood, so I tended to avoid them when I could. I just told Petra and Imelda that I was scared of them.

"I know it's racist," I'd said, "but they just give me the heebie-jeebies. I'd rather not do their check-in; they kind of scare me."  
"Some of them are very nice," Petra had argued. "Just like any other guest."  
I shrugged.   
"I know," I said, "but they make me feel uneasy. I really don't want to do it."

My employers had glanced at each other.   
They weren't happy, maybe because they'd faced all kinds of discrimination themselves over the years, but I remained steadfast in my refusal to deal with the vampire guests. So when the doorbell rang after 6 pm, Imelda welcomed the evening guests and I stayed out of the way, watching them follow her up the stairs. Once, I'd been peering around the door when she walked past with a vampire, a middle-aged man pulling a suitcase on wheels. I'd retreated back into the shadows of the room when they walked by, but he'd stopped and stuck his head around the door.  
And then he sniffed, a long intake of air, as though he were tracking an animal.  
"This way," I'd heard Imelda say and he'd reluctantly withdrawn, leaving me shaking in the darkness.

Knowing the house was now vampire-free, I went downstairs to the communal sitting room, where the wifi signal was strongest, with my laptop. Perhaps tonight would be the night that I would finally get some good news from one of the places I'd applied to.


	6. Chapter 6

"In short, what you're saying is that you haven't found him?" Pamela said.  
The signal was surprisingly clear; it sounded like she was in the next room instead of on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.   
But her voice was weak; she probably had the bleeds. The time difference between Louisiana and western Ireland meant that she should've been resting instead of taking Eric's call.

"More or less," he conceded. "Apparently he's back in the U.S., if I'm to believe what I've heard on the grapevine."  
"So you'll be coming home soon?"  
"I guess."  
"You've spent _months_ looking for him, Eric. Maybe you'll just have to ... I don't know? Wait him out? Lure him to you?"  
"Exactly," Eric replied confidently.  
"What do you mean - _exactly_? How are you going to lure him... oh, I see," Pamela finished unhappily. "Maggie."  
"Top marks," her maker said.   
"And do you know where _she_ is, at least?"  
"More or less," he said again.  
Kind of less, if he was honest.

"You're not going to try to abduct her, are you?" Pam drawled. "I'm quite certain she must be mighty sick of it by now."  
"No," Eric said, "I am going to woo her."   
"Woo her?" his progeny repeated. " _Woo_ her?"  
"Yes," he replied.  
There was silence on the other end of the phone.  
"Maybe you should rethink abduction," Pam said helpfully. "You might have a better chance of success."  
"Goodbye, Pam," he said. "Thank you, Pam."  
"Happy to oblige," she said and hung up.

Eric pressed a button on the SatNav of his hired car and looked out the window in the darkness.   
There were no street lights; he was driving down country roads in the pouring rain and he was pretty sure he had taken the wrong turn somewhere. He drove back the way he came, taking another turn at the crossroads.  
Five minutes later, he passed a sign that said BALLYGAR and drove past a pub and church, only to find himself on a dark road a couple of minutes later.

"That was it?" he muttered to himself, pulling over.   
He manoeuvred the car carefully on the narrow road, backing into the ditch to turn around. He drove back, this time slowing as he passed the pub, then pulled over and parked.  
"So this really _is_ it," he said in wonder.

Ballygar could barely be termed a village: in the darkness he could make out a church and a wall that probably circled a cemetery. The windows of the pub were bright, bright enough for him to see a small shop and post office next door. He sighed and adjusted his face into his best non-threatening expression, rooting around on the back seat for his battered leather jacket. He checked himself in the mirror, opening another button in his shirt, so he'd look more casual, more like a tourist, then got out of the car and ran for the door of the pub, accidentally stepping in deep puddles along the way.   
By the time he reached the entrance, the hems of his dark jeans were soaking wet and his hair was sopping.  
 _Fucking Ireland,_ he thought crossly. _It never stops raining._

The pub wasn't full; in fact there were only a handful of souls brave enough to venture out on such a wet night.   
Eric looked around: all of the clientele were elderly and male, probably local farmers. The only woman in the pub stood behind the counter, a broad woman with her hands on her hips and a dishcloth slung on her shoulders. 

She was looking Eric up and down as he approached, an unashamed appraisal.  
"Jesus Christ almighty tonight," she said in greeting. "You're a big fella, arentcha?"  
"Yes, I guess I am," he agreed and gave her his most charming smile.   
She returned it, her wide face splitting into a wider grin.  
"American, are you?"  
"Yes," he said.  
"Passing through?"  
"I'm looking for somewhere to stay the night, actually," he said.  
"You'll be wanting Ballygar House then," she said. "That's the only place to stay around here. You can still check in and all – they take late check-ins because they have..."  
She looked around and lowered her voice. "... a _vampire_ room."  
"Really?" Eric said, feigning shock.  
"They do indeed! Now, what can I get you?"  
He pointed at a tap and she started to pour him a beer.  
"They even have vamps staying up there every now and again," the barkeeper said in a confiding tone. "Like, real ones."

Eric shook his head in pretend amazement and paid for his drink.  
"But, sure, they're all cracked up there, anyway," the woman said.   
Eric had difficulty understanding her accent, it took him a moment or two to get her meaning.  
She lowered her voice again. "They're _lesbians_. Three of them in it, very strange set-up."  
"Mmm," Eric said, raising the glass to his lips. 

He pretended to drink, wiping the disgusting liquid off his top lip with the back of his hand.   
When she went down the other end of the bar to take an order from one of the elderly patrons, Eric's hand flashed out and he tipped the contents of the glass into the sink behind the counter. He glanced around discreetly; no one seemed to have noticed.   
Or if they had, they were pretending they hadn't.

When the barwoman returned, he asked for directions to Ballygar House and two of the older gentlemen offered to drive with him, in case he got lost. Eric looked at their reddened cheeks and noses and turned their offer down, but managed to get them to agree on the most straightforward route to the hotel. He ran back to his car – hair still wet, pants wetter – and drove off in the darkness, windscreen wipers swooshing across the glass, peering through the rain-splattered window in an attempt to see the sign for Ballygar House.

He must have driven past it twice and was about to go back to the pub to get someone to show him the way when he spotted the sign, almost blown over in the wind, and turned down the twisting avenue. Turning the corner, he drove up to a large, three-storey house with an impressive front door. He parked and darted through the rain, pressing sharply on the doorbell while he tried his best to cover his head with the collar of his jacket.

The door was thrown open and a tall woman with extremely short hair opened it.  
"Welcome to Ballygar House," she said with a warm smile.   
She stood aside and let him in, so he could drip on the chipped black and white tiled floors.  
"Have you got a room for the day?" Eric asked. "A vampire room?"

The woman discreetly assessed him.  
"We do," she answered. "For just one night? I mean, day?"  
She had a slight accent, which Eric thought might be German.  
"I think so," he said. "I'm just passing through."

She indicated that he should follow her to the desk by the stairs and he did so, looking around.   
The house had probably been magnificent once; now it was a little worn, a little worse for the wear. But a lot of love had been invested in it: the banisters still smelled of fresh varnish and some of the floor tiles were shinier than others - probably replaced. Small details caught his eye: the collection of paintings hung by the stairs; the heavy curtains hung on the windows.   
He felt a shiver, sure that he was looking at Magdalena's handiwork: he knew her style. He knew she'd been here. 

"You've restored the place very nicely," he said, looking around.  
The tall woman beamed at him.  
"Thank you," she said. "We're not in a position to source a lot of original items, but we have someone who advises us on finding good reproductions in the house's original style."  
 _Someone who used to work at a museum,_ perhaps, Eric thought. _Someone who was used to sourcing period-authentic pieces._

"Please sign here," the woman said with the same warm smile and he paused for a second before he wrote, _John Magnusson_.  
"I'll take you upstairs to your room, Mr Magnusson," she said. "Just come this way."  
He picked up his bag and followed her up the stairs.  
"Do you run this place by yourself?" he asked, following in her footsteps.  
She chuckled.   
"Oh, no, no. My wife and I run it and we have a small staff to keep this place ticking over."  
He looked at the paintings on the freshly-painted stairway: pastoral scenes. Cloudy Irish landscapes. A large seascape in oils.  
"A small staff?" he said conversationally. "How many does it take to keep a big place like this ... ticking over?"

The woman glanced over her shoulder and laughed.   
"Oh, not as many as we would like, to be sure. We have a couple of women who come in to help us with the cleaning - oh, and then there's Maggie, she's kind of a Girl Friday. She does everything from preparing the breakfasts to fixing the heating."  
Eric felt a jolt inside, he could barely prevent himself from clenching his fist in triumph.   
He'd found her. _Yes._

The woman stopped in front of a door to open it. She let him go in before her, switching the light on swiftly inside.   
The room was pleasant: the bed looked comfortable; the windows had electric blinds and black-out curtains. The walls were covered in a floral wallpaper and Eric's keen eye noticed that the mix of antique furniture and tasteful modern pieces.

"Excellent," he said and the woman beside him beamed.   
She turned and pointed at a door.  
"The bathroom is in there – let the shower run for a couple of minutes to warm the water up. The button for the electric blinds is here, no one will disturb you during the day. Would you like an artificial blood? I can warm you up a nice O Positive – the last vampire guests here said it was just the right thing for a chilly night... And this is the remote control for the TV, it's pretty straightforward. The heating is a bit temperamental," she said, "sometimes you need to give the radiator a bit of a bang."  
"Or just call Maggie," he said with a grin.  
The woman looked momentarily confused.  
"Your Girl Friday? The one who can fix the heating?" he said lightly.  
The woman was flustered.   
"Oh, yes, that's right. She's ... eh... she doesn't work nights, I'm afraid." She touched the radiator. "But it seems to be working," she said reassuringly. "It feels quite warm."  
"Excellent," Eric said again.  
She nodded her head and left the room, wishing him a pleasant stay.

Eric stripped quickly, throwing his wet jeans over a chair to dry.   
Completely naked, he pulled back the covers on the bed and rubbed the sheets between his fingers, smelling the fabric deeply.   
Could he smell her? Was that faint scent hers, the smell of her finger oils on the bedclothes? 

He padded into the bathroom, turned on the shower and stepped inside without waiting for the water to warm. He stood under the water, feeling it turn warm, then hot, pounding off his skin, before he squeezed some shower gel into his hands and washed himself. His skin warmed, his fingers lingered on his penis, feeling it swell in anticipation of Maggie's touch. He grinned again, turning off the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist. 

There was a knock on the bedroom door. Eric opened it a crack and found another woman, smaller than the first, with a pint glass of blood on a tray.   
He presumed this was Imelda, the wife, and he smiled at her but she averted her eyes, speaking to the glass.  
"I'm sorry, Mr Magnusson, I didn't mean to disturb you. I just wanted to bring you your blood," she mumbled, embarrassed by the sight of his naked shoulder in the narrow crack of the door.  
"No problem," he answered, sliding a hand out to take the glass.

Inside, he drank it, watched a little television, answered a couple of email enquiries from Pam.   
He watched the clock hands move slowly, waiting. When two hours had passed, he stood up and walked over to the radiator, surveyed it for a moment. Then he reached out and turned the dial, grinding it till it came off in his hands.   
He looked at the plastic valve in his hand and turned it over, before throwing it on the bed.

"Oops," he said to the empty room. "Radiator's broken. I guess that means I'd better call Maggie."  
He picked up the phone beside his bed and dialled 10 for reception.


	7. Chapter 7

Petra closed the door behind her, then clamped a hand over her mouth.  
Her whole body shook.  
Imelda and I looked on in horror as a single tear trickled down her cheek.

"Is everything okay?" Imelda whispered. "What happened?"  
"He was naked," Petra said. " _Gott im Himmel,_ he was _naked_!"  
She laughed silently: big, heaving laughs.  
I buried my face in my hands and laughed as quietly as I could; when I looked up, Imelda was holding her sides, making tiny squeaks as she tried to be silent.

"What did you do?" I whispered.  
"Well, he looked just as surprised to see me as I was to see him – you know, see _all_ of him," Petra said.  
I clutched Imelda and laughed into the shoulder of her pyjamas.  
"Then I said, 'Mr Magnusson, it seems I have surprised you. Maybe you would like to put on some clothing before I look at your radiator.'"  
"Look at his radiator!" I gave a dirty snigger and dissolved into another spasm of silent laughter.

Petra nodded firmly. She was close to six foot tall, a very imposing figure. If she told you to put your clothes back on, you'd better do so. Pronto.  
"Well done," her wife whispered admiringly. "I wouldn't have been able to say anything, I would've been totally lost for words."  
"Is the heating actually broken?" I said in a low voice.  
She nodded.  
"It's like a sauna in there," she confirmed.  
"Maybe that's why he was naked?" Imelda said hopefully.  
"He was naked because he's a vampire pervert," I muttered.  
"Perhaps he gets turned on watching women do DIY?" Imelda suggested.  
I shuddered.

"Maggie, will you go in and have a look – " Petra began.  
" _Have a look!_ " Imelda echoed and bent over to laugh into her cupped hands.  
"- have a look and see if you can do something with the thermostat. Maybe it's just jammed."  
"I will, but you're coming with me," I hissed. "I'm not going in there by myself and _she's_ useless."  
I jerked a thumb at Imelda, who was leaning against the wall, laugh-crying. 

Suddenly, she stopped and looked over our shoulders.  
And gulped.  
The doorway was filled by a tall man who was, I thankfully noted, wearing clothes. A pair of jeans in any case and presumably something on top, but I couldn't bring myself to look above his knees.  
He was barefoot and he had a scar on one of his feet, like a Y.  
_From an arrow,_ I suddenly thought.  
What a weird assumption. But some vampires are old enough to have lived at a time when getting shot in the foot by an arrow was not an uncommon occurrence. Right?

"Ladies," said a deep voice, an amused voice, and the man back stepped into the room, holding the door open for us as we passed.  
I scuttled inside and as I did, I smelled the skin of his bare arms, a raw, salty smell like the Atlantic. With some underlying sweet scent, maybe of honey and apples. 

I could feel him bend his head towards mine, so I sped by before he could say anything. I kept my eyes on the patterned carpet and went over to the radiator, while Petra waylaid him at the door. The room was warm and clammy; I longed to throw open a window and let some of the cold air in and I wondered why the vampire hadn't done so. I looked at him slyly while he was talking to Petra – she was apologising for the hiccup, but he kept glancing in my direction and I ducked my head to avoid any eye contact. 

He was tall enough to look down even on her; he had deep-set eyes, a cleft chin and when he grinned, his face lit up with something that reminded me of ... mischief. He stood with a slight stoop, like a man too used to bending to speak to normal-sized beings, but there was something about the way he held himself that made me think that he was weary.  
_Perhaps he hasn't had a good day's rest in a while,_ I thought, unpacking the little bag that held my few tools. Some of the vampires my father worked with tended to look older when they hadn't fed on human blood for a while.  
I shuddered again. Ugh. I knew he could smell me, smell what I'd eaten for supper - scones with strawberry jam.  
_He's probably licking his lips behind my back,_ I thought, repulsed and I was overcome by a desire to get out of there quickly.  
I set to work but immediately noticed that the valve on the radiator was missing. I looked around – on the carpet, under the armchair, even under the wardrobe. Then I spotted it on his bed, as though he'd tossed it there.

"Did that come off?" I asked him, pointing at it, not daring to meet his eyes fully. "The valve, the thermostat thingie?"  
He grinned at me.  
"This thingie?" he said teasingly, holding it aloft.  
"Yes, that thingie." I was not amused.  
"It did, Maggie," he said, his voice a caress. "It just fell – off."  
"I'm afraid I can't fix that," I said sharply. "It looks like it's been _yanked_ off. It's broken."

He shrugged impertinently and that pissed me off, so I glared at him.  
"We can organise another room for you," I continued, my tone frosty, "but we'll have to tape bin bags over the window to keep the light out. The Blue Room?" I asked, turning to Petra, "it has heavy curtains, doesn't it?"  
"We can do that, Mr Magnusson," she said. "We'll do that straight away. Just give us ten minutes. Come on, Maggie."  
"And don't touch the bloody radiator in the next room," I snapped.  
I normally wouldn't have dreamt of speaking to a guest that way, but this buffoon was grinning at me as though it were all a joke. I didn't doubt for a second that he'd broken the heating with his clumsy, shovel-like hands.

"Maggie should have another look at it," the vampire said, staring at Petra. His voice was soft, hypnotic.  
I gasped in indignation. He was _glamouring_ her!  
"Mr ... Mr..." I called. He ignored me.  
Damn it, what was his name?  
"Mr Magnusson!" I cried. "Leave her alone!"  
He looked over at me quizzically. Then he did something odd: he winked at me.

"I just want Maggie to take another look at it," he said to Petra. "Alone. No harm will come to her, I promise."  
Petra nodded at me and glided out of the room without a backward glance.  
_Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , I thought.  
I picked up a wrench and held it up fiercely.  
"I'm wearing silver," I threatened. "And I will use this on you as well."  
He laughed.  
"Magdalena," he said in that same silky tone.  
The hairs on my arms stood up.  
"How do you know my name?" I hissed viciously, shocked.  
He took a step or two towards me, his arms outstretched.  
I backed away, brushing against the hot radiator, which made me jump.  
"Seriously," I repeated, panicked. "Do we know each other? How do you know my name?"

The vampire stared a me.  
"Magdalena?" he repeated.  
" _How_ do you know my name?" I cried.  
He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. He stepped back, his face confused.  
"The tall woman mentioned it when I checked in," he said haltingly. "Unless ... unless you think we've met before?"

Yeah, that was hardly likely. I'd met few vampires in my day but I'd certainly remember this big gangly one with the smug grin.  
"I don't think we've ever met," I said firmly. "Ever."

He stepped forward again, just in front of me. My nose was on a level with his ribcage and I could smell the sea from his t-shirt.  
He didn't move, just stood there like a statue for unending seconds, while my sweaty palms gripped the wrench.  
Finally, slowly, I raised my head and looked up at him.  
He was frowning at me, his brow furrowed. 

I used the opportunity to place one end of the wrench on his chest and gingerly push him away.  
He allowed himself to be pushed.  
"Magdalena," he said in that same tone he'd used on Petra.  
"Don't try to glamour me," I snapped. "Step back."  
" _Magdalena_ ," he crooned again.  
"Are you fucking deaf?" I cried. "Don't even try! Step the fuck back or I'll hit you with this wrench!"

He stepped back with alacrity, his face still creased in a frown.  
"You won't be glamoured," he said, not taking his eyes off me. "I see."  
Then a slow smile crossed his face and he bowed his head in acceptance.  
"I apologise most sincerely," he said. "My misunderstanding. Please forgive me. I will not trouble you again, you have my word."

The word of a vampire? Huh. I almost snorted out loud.  
"Petra'll probably have the other room ready for you," I said coldly. "It's at the end of the corridor; you can move your things down there now. Keep your clothes on and your hands off the thermostat, please."  
"As you wish," he said in the same acquiescing tone. 

I wriggled past him and out into the corridor, where Imelda was waiting.  
"Are you all right?" she whispered. "Petra just walked past me without saying a word. She's just come back up the stairs with a roll of bin bags and packing tape. Is the radiator still broken?"  
"He broke it on purpose," I hissed. "He was trying to lure one of us in for a feed. Whatever you do, don't make eye contact with him. He's a sneaky fucker."

The door opened and the tall vampire came out.  
Imelda and I looked at the ground, like two mediaeval serving wenches when the lord of the manor walked by. I thought I heard a low chuckle but I didn't look up to check.

I didn't stay around to make sure he was comfortable in his new room. I went back upstairs to mine, locked the door and jammed a chair under the handle. Then I rooted through the drawer beside my bed and put on the collection of silver rings and thimbles I hadn't needed for so long. I slept badly, startling at every creak and rattle, sitting up in bed, ready to punch a vampire in the face with my silver-clad fingers.  
But he stayed away.

The next day, Imelda and I pressed our ears up against the door of The Blue Room but there was no sound from within.  
We weren't sure if the room was entirely light-tight, but we established that there was no hissing or sizzling from within and we took that as a good sign.  
"What does it sound like when they burn up?" she asked. "I imagine it'd be like sausages in a pan. What do you think?"  
"Probably," I agreed.

We listened again. Silence. So he was still alive.  
Or dead.  
Or undead.  
Whatever. Creepy fucker.

That evening I hid upstairs as soon as the sun went down, my face pressed to the tiny attic window of my room. I saw him leave the house, his long, loping gait recognisable in the dim light of the garden lamps.  
I shrank back out of sight as he opened his car, looking up at the house.  
There was no way he could see me, I reasoned, but better safe than sorry.  
"You need to reconsider offering a vampire room," I said to Petra and Imelda when I went downstairs.  
"He was an exception," Petra nodded. "I mean, most of them have been very nice but that one was just weird."  
I shuddered.  
Weird was an understatement.  
Vampires? Ugh.


	8. Chapter 8

_The boss is back!_

The news flew through the building like a frisson, like a shiver.  
Pam heard the younger staff calling to each other in the corridor outside her office, heard them scurry off back to their desks to straighten out and tidy up their workplaces. Eric had that effect on them: they had haemorrhaged staff since Maggie left, but those that remain displayed that slavish devotion that her maker seemed to inspire without trying. She knew that at this moment they were hurrying to finish anything yet to be done, so they could present him with their work in the hope of getting a crisp, "Well done" for their efforts. 

She leaned back and looked out the window of her office, which overlooked the staff car park. By the lights of the carpark she saw that Eric's silver Audi was parked neatly next to her red convertible, but outside the back entrance to the palace, the Anubis team were unloading two coffins. The matt black one recognised as his, but the other one? She peered out the window but couldn't see any markings on it. Had he brought someone back from Europe? Another vampire?

"Boss is back," said one of the young vampires, poking her head around the door. "Should I go get him some blood from the kitchens?"  
"Yes, do," Pamela said to him. "For us both - and from his private stock. Cook will fetch it for you from the cellar."

She stood up, glanced at herself in the mirror behind the door, touching up her lipstick and patting down her hair as she heard Eric approach, rapping on doors in greeting as he passed by the staff. Pam smiled: since his decision to fight for his kingdom, his attitude towards his position and the people who worked for him had changed. He had started taking his kingship and his kingdom more seriously, and frightened fewer of his household to death. 

"Pamela," he said, filling the doorway.  
She gave him a brief hug, releasing him when the young vampire reappeared, two glasses of warm blood on a tray. Had he still been human, the young vampire would have blushed when Eric took them with a pleased, "Excellent! Thank you," but instead he nodded and grinned broadly, removing himself with a bow. 

Pamela closed the door and they sat down. Eric took the swivel chair opposite her desk, adjusting its height to suit his tall frame.  
"Who's in the other coffin?" she asked curiously, clinking her glass with his. "Did you find North after all?"  
Eric drank deeply, then stretched out his legs.  
"A souvenir I picked up outside London," he said. "I'll show you later."  
"And Maggie? Did you find Maggie?"

He drank again, not meeting Pam's eye, then made to put the glass down on her desk.  
She shoved a coaster at him and he set it down carefully.  
"Yes, I did," he said. "But she didn't know who I was."  
Pamela looked at him, her mouth agape.  
"Glamoured?" she wanted to know.  
He shrugged.  
"I guess so."  
"But she can't be glamoured."  
Eric looked up at her, his face as puzzled as hers.  
"That's what I thought. I mean, she's working as a _maid_ in the middle of nowhere - "  
There was a knock on the door and he stopped.  
Irritated, Pam snapped, "Yes?" -  
and Mr Montgomery put his head around the door.

"Your majesty," he said, glancing around. "Welcome back, sire. I was ... eh... I was wondering..."  
He stepped into the room, unable to hide his curiosity as he looked around. "I was wondering if you would like me to unpack your bags or whether you would rather ... eh..."  
"She's not here," Eric said. "I didn't bring her back with me. She's not hiding, Montgomery."  
The English vampire's face fell, descending into a picture of sorrow.  
"Oh dear," he said sadly. "That's exactly what I feared when she asked me for a job reference."

Eric sat up straight, pulling his legs in.  
"What did you just say?"  
Mr Montgomery checked himself, straightened his tie nervously.  
"She emailed me a while back, looking for a job reference. She wanted to apply for jobs in her chosen field - curatorial or archival work, if I recall correctly."  
"And you wrote her one?"  
"Yes, sire, I did. You were on your travels and she specifically asked me to do it, rather than Ms de Beaufort. Should I not have?"  
The king leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms thoughtfully.  
"No, you did right, Montgomery. She was entitled to a reference, though I'd be interested in seeing what kind of fairy story you two dreamed up to describe what she did here."  
Mr Montgomery winced. 

Pamela glanced at her maker, who was deep in thought.  
"Do you know whether she has found a job?" she asked the butler.  
"Not to my knowledge - at least, I haven't been contacted by anyone to vouch for her. Of course, that doesn't mean anything but she did confess that finding a position in her specialised area was rather difficult..."  
Montgomery was aware that he was babbling, but he was unnerved by the king's pensive silence and unsure as to whether he had inadvertently done something wrong. Pamela was looking from him to Eric and back, waiting for someone to speak.

Eric stood up.  
"Do you think she would come back if I offered her a job?" he asked Mr Montgomery with a half-grin.  
The butler hesitated. Was he serious?  
"I don't think... "  
"She didn't want the last job you offered her," Pamela interrupted. "And if she didn't even want to be queen, I'm guessing she's not going to be keen on a lesser post."  
Montgomery nodded, relieved not that have to answer.  
"Hmm," Eric said. "We'll see."


	9. Chapter 9

The encounter with the weird vampire made me redouble my efforts to find a new job.  
Redoubling my efforts sadly only meant double the rejections, though: people in my field tend to work in their dusty offices or libraries or museums till they're rolled out of there in a state of near-mummification, much like some of the artefacts they'd lovingly tended for years. 

In other words, if you were lucky enough to find a job like the one I'd had at the National Museum in Dublin, you stayed there till you found something just as good, or better, by networking with colleagues at conferences and academic visits or by submitting research papers to enhance your profile. I'd left my job more than three years previously and my former boss had retired in the meantime; when I discreetly made enquiries among my ex-colleagues, I was equally discreetly – and a tad regretfully – informed that there would be no job openings in the foreseeable future. My department had been squeezed by government cutbacks and no one was hiring. 

I quickly learned that my time in Louisiana had been a giant step away from my profession, and my employment prospects had only been made worse by a year and a half spent renovating an old house in the middle of nowhere. I would have to start again, at the bottom, and crawl my way back to where I'd been when I left Dublin to work for Queen Catherine.

The realisation was sickening.

And maybe that was why I didn't hang up immediately when I got a phone call at 7 a.m. from a Ms Bowford in New Orleans.  
"Maggie Kennick?" she said into the phone. "Miz Magdalena Kennick?"  
"Yes? What? Sorry?" I said, sitting bolt upright in bed, squinting at the luminous dials of my watch in the darkness.  
"Ah'm calling from the offices of the Vampire King of Louisiana," she said in the slow southern drawl that always sounds slightly sardonic or slightly amused. "Ah was wondering if you would be willing to consider returning to Louisiana to take up your former position in the employ of his Majesty, King Eric?"  
I was speechless.  
"I'm not - " I began but she interrupted me quickly.  
"A situation has just become vacant in our archival department and Mr Montgomery has praised you highly."  
"No, thank you," I said with alacrity. "I very much appreciate the offer but I am actually really keen to return to the curatorial profession and am therefore looking to work in a museum or similar."

I don't know why I was suddenly so impossibly formal, but there was something about Ms Bowford that made me want to sit up straight and account for myself.

"Curatorial?" she said, sounding out the five syllables as though it were the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard. "I see. So you have no interest in returning to your job as ..."  
I heard the shuffling of papers,  
"... as the court of Louisiana's senior archivist?"  
"No thank you," I said. And added, "Ma'am," just in case.  
"I see," she said. "Well, then, that's – "  
And then she put her hand over the mouthpiece.  
"Miz Kennick?" she said suddenly, "Can I put you on hold for a moment? Just a teeny-weeny moment?"  
"Sure –" I started to say but my ear was filled with the sound of a particularly tragic rendition of Greensleeves.

I waited, plucking lint off the duvet cover, jumping a little when Ms Bowford's voice suddenly said,  
"Miz Kennick?"  
"Yes?"  
"I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you. The King of Louisiana is spearheading a _very_ important project that will coincide with the opening of the Department of Vampire Studies at the University of Louisiana in New Orleans next year. This is the kind of thing that the entire world will be watching. _Very_ prestigious. "  
"What is it?" I asked, my curiosity piqued. "What's he planning?"  
Ms Bowford hesitated.  
"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to reveal details," she said. "We had hoped that we could lure you back to Louisiana without saying too much, knowing how well-connected you are to the vampire community in Dublin. You see, this is a multi-million dollar project to ... to preserve the vampire legacy in New Orleans. We're thinking - "  
I heard the murmur of a low voice in the background when she paused.  
"We're thinking ... a major cultural installation, a dedicated museum, a... a festival to celebrate vampirology."  
_Oh, wow,_ I thought.

"But I've said too much," she said quickly. "I hope I can count on your discretion. We obviously want the initial planning stage to remain a secret. We know Prague is planning something for 2025 and we don't need them stealing our ideas."  
I thought it over, my brain racing, and she must have taken my silence as hesitation.

"We would be willing to have you over here for a month initially, on a trial basis. For a consultancy fee," she said quickly. "Name your price, Miz Kennick."  
I hesitated, still not sure whether this was a joke but tempted by the possibilities on offer. If this really was going to happen, it would be a first worldwide. A dedicated vampire installation, a large-scale project in New Orleans - the vampire capital. And I would have the opportunity to design and implement new ideas, the chance to be in on the project from the very start.  
I was almost jittery with excitement. It was an opportunity so rare, I could hardly believe I was being afforded it.

Ms Bowford cleared her throat discreetly.  
"Your fee?" she said again.  
I named a ridiculous price and smacked the heel of my hand against my forehead as soon as the figure left my mouth. What had gotten into me?  
"Fine," she said smoothly. "That sounds reasonable."  
My jaw dropped.  
"Are you free to come to Louisiana immediately?" she asked.  
"I have things to finish up here," I stuttered. "Maybe the end of the month?"  
"Two weeks from now? Fine," she said briskly. "My people will organise your flights, your contracts and so on. Mr Montgomery will be delighted to hear that you're returning."  
"Thank you," I said. "Thank you so much."  
_Holy moly,_ I thought in excitement. _Holy shit!_

"There is one thing, though," she said. "You may not tell anyone where you're going. Not anyone. Not your friends and most certainly not your family. If you do, you can consider this offer void."  
"Why not?" I asked, astonished.  
"Because, Ms Kennick, you are the daughter of the human that has the Empress' ear. If Empress Moya gets wind of this project, you can be sure she will step up any plans for something similar in her territory. Like I said, this is a highly prestigious project and the kingdom that manages to pull it off first will be the benchmark for any others that follow. We want to set that benchmark."

I knew what she meant. Prague was working on a vampire cultural centre; Romania was battling infrastructure issues in Transylvania; Dublin was toying with the idea of a vampire museum but hampered by Empress Moya's indecisiveness. If they heard of something happening in New Orleans, all efforts would shift into top gear to get their projects finished first.

"I understand," I said. "I agree. You have my word. I can tell my family I've been offered a consultancy contract in New York or something."  
"Good," she said coolly. "See you then."  
Before she put down the phone, I said, "May I have your name again, please? Bowford?"  
"Pamela de Beaufort," she said and this time she definitely sounded amused.  
I wondered if we'd met when I was working in Louisiana? The name didn't ring a bell, so I timidly asked,  
"Do we know each other?"  
She let out a peal of laughter.  
"Apparently not," she replied.

And I could still hear her laughing as she hung up the phone.


	10. Chapter 10

The residence of the King of Louisiana was just as I remembered it: an incredible mish-mash of a dozen architectural styles that was so spectacularly ugly, it was almost breathtaking in its brazenness. 

While I couldn’t speak for the vampires of the world at large, I knew it was sneered at by the other American monarchs and openly mocked by the Europeans. At the Empress’ court in Dublin it had been suggested, with much amusement, that Queen Catherine had simply flung open _An Introduction to Architecture_ and picked out all the bits she liked – Gothic windows here, neoclassical columns there, a couple of Tudor beams and a Paladian arcade. Heck, she even threw in a bit of French Creole and a nod to colonial revival.

Little did her critics know that that was precisely what she had done. Mr Montgomery had told me so. And I am absolutely certain she would have built a moat if she had got planning permission. 

Thus, I found myself standing between the columns that flanked the impressive glass entrance doors (Art Deco) with my suitcase in tow, already perspiring in the southern heat even though the evening had set it and it should have been starting to cool. I wasn’t sure whether I should proceed through to the reception desk or go around the back through the car park to the staff entrance. The armed guards on either side of the door were beginning to look at me suspiciously, wondering what I was up to.

Luckily, at that moment, Mr Montgomery came dashing out through the glass doors, his arms thrown up in a gesture of delight.  
“Ms Kennick! Oh, Ms _Kennick_!” he cried.  
“Mr Montgomery!” I said warmly and hugged him – he even let me, so overcome was he with the emotion of the occasion.  
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” he said in beautifully modulated voice. “Come in, come in, dear Ms. Kennick. We have everything ready for you.”

He sounded like an announcer from a radio programme in the 1940s - you almost expected him to introduce a song by the Andrews Sisters next – and I followed him gratefully, pulling my suitcase as far as the door before he snapped his fingers and a uniformed bellhop ran forward to take it from me. 

I walked through the lobby and the receptionists waved at me – “Ms Kennick!” – I waved back, realising I would have to discreetly re-familiarise myself with the names of a lot of people I apparently used to know when I worked there more than a year and a half previously. Mr Montgomery walked me to the staff elevator, pointing out improvements that had been made since I had last been there. I made admiring noises and we took a short ride in the elevator to the top floor, where we walked down a small corridor that was unadorned by paintings or fancy wallpaper, just a serviceable grey carpet and white walls. He led me to a door that had the same security lock as a hotel room, but looked more like staff quarters than someplace a guest would sleep. With a flourish, he pushed the door open and indicated that I should go in.

It was an apartment – albeit a small one, but a proper apartment. With a kitchen, a bathroom, living room and bedroom, and a small room that contained a large wooden desk and empty bookshelves. It smelled of fresh paint and the chemical smell of a new carpet. The bed was freshly made with linens starched so stiffly that I could see the creases of the iron. 

“Is this all for _me_?” I asked him in wonder. “I don’t need this much space.”  
He opened his mouth to answer but I held up my hand.  
“What’s that noise?” I asked.  
It was a gentle rhythmic thud, barely perceptible.  
Mr Montgomery paused, looked at me with a strange expression on his face.  
“That’s the tennis court, ma’am,” he said gently. “This apartment is located above the tennis court. We thought you might be ... you might be most comfortable here.”  
“It’s lovely, but I would’ve been happy enough with just one room.”  
“The king was most desirous of your optimal comfort,” Mr Montgomery said and then added hurriedly, “But I shall let you freshen up before you go to see Ms de Beaufort.”  
“Of course,” I said. “I won’t need long. I’m looking forward to learning about my new job. She wouldn’t tell me much on the phone, it was all _shrouded in secrecy_ – ”  
I laughed, expecting him to join in. Instead, he looked deeply uncomfortable.  
“Indeed,” he said, clearing his throat. “Well, when you are ready, please make your way to reception and have them call me. I shall take you back to Ms de Beaufort’s office.”

And he exited my apartment with what I felt was unnecessary haste.

x x x

Ms de Beaufort and I sat across from one another, eyeing each other up.

That is to say, she started it and I followed suit, not bothering to be discreet while she ogled me openly, taking in my calloused hands and unpolished nails, the newness of my blouse and my poor attempt to tame my unruly hair. She, on the other hand, was lacquered and shiny, from her beautiful cherry lipstick that perfectly matched her cherry red silk shirt, to the glossy blond hair that was encased in an elaborate top-knot.

“Thank you very much for the opportunity,” I said, trying to break the ice. “You can rest assured that I will do my utmost to make a success of this project, Ms de Beaufort.”  
“Pamela,” said she, tipping her head to study me. “You can call me Pamela ... Magdalena.”  
“Maggie,” I said quickly. “Everyone calls me Maggie. Well, almost everyone.”

I gave a nervous laugh and looked to Mr Montgomery, who was sitting, straight-backed in the corner, for support. He smiled encouragingly. But Ms de Beaufort – Pamela – did not join in, just continued to look at me with open curiosity. I glanced around at her office, which was just as neat and shiny as she was, and when I looked back, she was still staring. 

“Well,” she said finally, after her study of my appearance was complete. “Welcome back, Ms Kennick.” She picked up some papers and shuffled them, studied them for a second before looking up at me. “And we haven’t met before?”  
“I don’t think so,” I said and added in my most charming voice, “You’re not the type of person I’d easily forget.”  
“Well, you’d _think_ ,” she agreed in her soft drawl.  
Oh, okay.

She looked at her notes and said, “Basically, the King of Louisiana has launched a pilot scheme to assess the viability of this project. We have hired the finest,” she paused and looked at me over the top of the papers, as though I were about to disagree with her, “- the _finest_ in the business to get this off the ground. We have a location scout already negotiating possible sites, we have a group of architects putting together a proposal and, of course, we are working on sourcing acquisitions for the vampire museum – ”  
“You’ll need to take a proper inventory first,” I blurted out.  
She stared at me, astonished.  
“I beg your pardon?” Pamela asked.  
I blushed.

“New Orleans, I mean, the vampire state of Louisiana has a lot of artefacts in storage but no one has undertaken an extensive inventory,” I said. “A lot of it is uncatalogued and may need restoration or preservation. It should have been done years ago and we were actually planning to start it before I – ”  
My mind went blank.  
Before I _what_? Before I left?

“ _Who_ was planning to start it?” Pamela asked and I had the strange feeling there was a sly tone to her voice.  
“Me and – ” I faltered.  
Me and who?  
I ploughed on: “Em, I’m not entirely sure any more. It may have been something that was just in discussion back then...”  
Behind me, Mr Montgomery cleared his throat again, a sound barely above a whisper.  
“In any case,” I said hurriedly, “I remember noticing we had a lot of things that probably deserve to be exhibited as artefacts of New Orleans’ vampire history.”  
“Oh, so you remember _that_ , do you?” she said.  
Mr Montgomery cleared his throat, like sandpaper on wood.  
“Yes,” I answered, but my voice went up like a question: _Yes?_  
“Interesting,” she said, rolling the word out so she could taste each syllable like a praline. “Hmm. I will take note of it.”  
She wrote something down on a piece of paper.

“In any case, Ms Kennick,” Pamela continued, “The main focus of your work initially will not be restoration or –” she consulted her notes “- preservation. We see you more in a collaborative role.”  
“A collaborative role?”  
“Yes. His majesty, his serene highness, King Eric of Louisiana, –” did I notice a smirk when she said that? “- requires someone who will work closely with each of the groups and report their recommendations or findings to him on a regular basis. As you may well imagine, our liege lord – ” there it was again, definitely a smirk, “- is far too busy with the day-to-day running of his kingdom to sit in on meetings about zoning laws and whatnot. He needs someone who can summarise the key points so he will be kept abreast.”  
And with that last word, her eyes sank to my chest to look at my abreasts.

“So I’m to be ... his _secretary_?” I said, unable to keep the displeasure out of my voice.  
I had not flown halfway around the world to take notes for a lazy-ass vampire.  
“No,” Pamela said quickly. “On the contrary. Eric, I mean, _the king_ knows that you have experience in this area. He hopes you will actively contribute to as many aspects of the development of this project as possible. Your role is – is – ”  
“Supervisory,” Mr Montgomery supplied from behind me. “You are to be the representative of the crown, Ms Kennick. The vicereine, as it were.”

I didn’t need to be named Louisiana’s female viceroy, but I definitely wanted to be doing more than taking minutes for King Eric.  
Appeased, I smiled at Ms de Beaufort and she returned it.  
“Wonderful,” she said. “Well, you can start straight away. There’s a meeting starting at midnight, we have some initial sketches for the museum and cultural installation. Perhaps you could throw your eye over them and see what you think. I will be along after a while but I find it best to let the humans get themselves ... organised before I join.”  
“Will I meet the king tonight?” I asked curiously.

Pamela looked at Mr Montgomery before she looked back at me.  
“Sadly, no,” she said in a voice that said it was anything but. “He is otherwise occupied at the moment, I’m afraid. But do not fear, he knows you have arrived and is looking forward to meeting you.”  
“Oh, okay,” I said. “I’m ... um, I’m looking forward to getting to know him, too.”  
“You’ve never met him?” Pamela said, straightening her papers. 

She didn’t look at me. I glanced over at Mr Montgomery but he was busy picking at a thread on his cuff.  
“No,” I said, “When I worked here before I was on the day staff. I guess I might have seen him at, you know, the Christmas party or something? Or maybe at some staff assembly?”  
My voice trailed off. 

Pamela looked up at me, bright-eyed.  
“Well, _you’re_ in for a treat,” she said – again, in a voice that sounded like she meant the opposite.  
_She’s so weird_ , I thought.  
But then, vampires were a weird bunch. That wasn’t anything new.

I picked up my bag and nodded at her in lieu of a handshake – back in the vampire world now, no unnecessary touching – and made my way to the door, stopping with my hand on the doorknob.  
“Just one more question,” I said. “What do I call him?”  
“Him?”  
“The king. Do I, you know, call him _Your Majesty?_ The Empress asks that we call her _Madame_ rather than _Her Imperial Majesty_ – a bit of a mouthful after a while, I suppose, so she prefers just a simple _Madame_ – “  
I was babbling, but Mr Montgomery and Ms de Beaufort were looking at me as though I had asked something utterly preposterous.  
“I was just wondering what the protocol at court was,” I finished limply.  
Pamela looked to Mr Montgomery.  
“Patrick?” she said, “That’s your area. Tell Maggie what the protocol at court is.”  
“Well, one addresses the king as _His Majesty_ upon meeting him first and refers to him as _Sir_ thereafter,” Mr Montgomery said smoothly. “That would be standard protocol in this instance.”  
Pamela’s mouth twitched.  
“ _Sir_ , okay, got it,” I said. “I’ll remember that.”  
“Oh, _do_ ,” she said, clapping her hands. “And please let me be there when you use it.”

 _Weirdo_ , I thought, pulling the door closed behind me.


	11. Chapter 11

I quickly established that the king’s project was in its infancy. If truth be told, I wasn't even sure the project had reached the moment of conception yet. My first meeting was with the architects, who had been given the brief to put together some rough plans or concept for a museum and gallery. And that was it, their brief had literally been: draw up a plan for a museum. Period.

“We don’t even have a site,” said Josh, the head architect.  
He looked a bit embarrassed, glancing at the door as though he expected someone to storm in when he said it. He was in his forties, with a healthy tan and dark hair that was cut in a trendy style. I had no doubt that he and his equally on-trend associates were from New Orlean’s coolest and hippest architectural company.

“Then why ... why did the king ask you to start drawing up plans?” I asked. “That makes no sense. I mean, where it’s located will obviously affect ...”  
“Everything,” he interrupted. “Basically everything.”

I looked around at his two assistants, who were staring at me hopefully, waiting – I presume – for direction.  
“This is very unorthodox,” I stammered.  
“Well, I’m glad you think so, but I must also admit that it surprises me a little,” Josh said. “Ms de Beaufort gave us to understand that you would be leading this project.”  
_Leading it where?_ I wondered, flicking through the plans. 

Rather than waste more time, I had Josh work up a rough list of criteria for the planning of a public building, based on a project they had undertaken for a cultural centre in Baton Rouge. One of the assistants took out her tablet and started flicking through sites that were either up for sale or coming up for sale and we started compiling a short list of any that might be worth looking into. By the time Pamela joined us, I was on the phone to the man King Eric had hired to scout sites in and around New Orleans, fixing an appointment for him to make us a presentation the following night.

She watched me fill my notebook with lists – people to contact, offices to ring, bureaucratic wheels to set in motion. Satisfied that I had taken the first steps there, she led me a meeting with the palace’s PR team, who had been tasked with coming up with a concept for a vampire cultural festival. I didn’t recognise any of the humans, but I could remember a few of the vampires from my time working in the archive, so we exchanged pleasantries till Pamela told us to can the chitchat and get on with the show. One of the vampires sprang into action and switched on a PowerPoint slideshow.

“Shouldn’t we be waiting till we even know what we’re going to build?” I muttered to Pamela out of the corner of my mouth.  
“Why?” she asked. “No reason to wait till we have a museum before we throw a parade. Who doesn’t love a parade? New Orleans practically invented parades.”  
_Fine,_ I thought and shrugged inwardly, while the PR team talked about _synergy_ and _vibrancy_ and _celebrating diversity_.  
I nodded energetically, taking copious notes for my reference and the king’s perusal. 

After a while, a vampire rolled in a serving trolley with bottles of blood warming in a _bain marie_ and coffee for the humans.  
I took one gratefully, feeling jet lag slowly settling on my shoulders like a heavy weight. One of the vampires called Pamela over and she left my side with a cross look on her face, as though she didn’t like the thought of leaving me alone for a second. I looked around awkwardly. The palace staff were smiling at me politely, then looking away, turning to rejoin their own conversations. It was like they were almost ... afraid of me, or something. And I knew why: in the world of vampires, hierarchy is key and I was most likely seen as the king’s lackey.  
Being shadowed by Pamela de Beaufort wasn’t helping.

When I looked up from my coffee, a small woman with short braided hair came up to me. Her hair had tiny beads at the end that made a soft noise when she turned her head. She looked up at me – _rustle, rustle_ – and said,  
“So you’re the Irishwoman the king hired to get this thing off the ground?”  
“I ... I think so,” I said, unsure. “I mean, I'm sure I'm an Irishwoman but not so sure about getting it off the ground. I’m Maggie – I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name?”  
“Nia,” she replied with a wide smile. She paused. “C’n I ask you something? Like, an honest question?”  
“Sure.”  
“Is this thing for real?”  
“Sorry?”  
“This project. Is it for real? He’s gone and hired a whole buncha people – for only a month. He says it’s a pilot scheme, like a viability study. But it must be costing a fortune.”  
“Louisiana is broke,” I said. “Or, at least, it was broke when I last worked here. I don’t know if that’s changed in eighteen months.”

She looked at me quizzically, narrowing her brown eyes.  
“They say he’s paying for this out of his own pocket. Privately. The vamps say it’s his little folly.”  
“Really?” 

As I said it, Pamela’s vampire ears must have caught wind of our discussion because she glanced over at us and I could see her trying to extract herself from her conversation.  
“Have you been working for King Eric for long?” I whispered hurriedly, suddenly feeling the need to pump Nia for information before Pamela returned. “What’s he like?”  
“Not long. Started last month,” she said, her voice also dropping to a whisper. “And he’s okay, I guess, if you stay on his good side. Folks around here either love him or hate him. Apparently he had a queen but she left him and no one is allowed to talk about her. Like, not even mention her name on the pain of immediate dismissal. Did you know that the two of them actually _staked_ the last queen –?”

“Making friends?” Pamela said, cutting the conversation short. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Ms Cooper?”  
Nia looked up at her and murmured something before slinking off, abashed.  
“I hope she wasn’t spreading tittle-tattle,” she said scornfully, taking me by the elbow. “Come on, I need to show you your office.”

She said goodbye for both of us and I barely had time to scoop up my notebook and pen before she steered me out of the room.  
“She said the king and his wife killed the last Queen,” I said, trotting along beside Pamela, my elbow still in her grip. “Is that true?”  
Her lips pinched.  
“Tosh,” she said briskly. “His majesty’s ascension to the throne was both legal and legitimate.”  
She said it in a way that indicated that that topic of conversation was over and done with.  
Like, _forever_.

“And what happened to his wife?” I asked curiously, as I was briskly led down a corridor lined with portraits of New Orleans’ monarchs and their consorts.  
“His majesty is not married,” Pamela said, stopping short. “And we do not encourage the staff to discuss his lovelife.”  
“Of course,” I said, feeling chastised.  
Only seven hours on the job and I had already established myself as the office gossip. 

I looked around, searching for a new topic of conversation to change the subject. My eyes alighted on just the thing:  
“Lovely painting!” I said and pointed at the wall of the long, lushly carpeted corridor we were on.

We had stopped in front of a portrait of Queen Sophie-Anne on her throne, a vision of youthful loveliness with some fluffy mutt on her knee and half a jewellery store around her neck. Next came King William’s portrait, a serious study in moody oils, probably painted before he came to the throne, judging by the style of clothing he was wearing. The previous queen, Queen Catherine, had decided to go full-on Princess Diana mode: her pose showed her looking back coquettishly over her shoulder, blonde hair flicked elegantly to frame her pale face and the blue eyes sporting liberal amounts of blue eye shadow. 

And then there was an empty hook.  
“Where’s the king’s portrait?” I asked casually.  
Pamela looked up at the wall, horrified.  
Alarmed by her expression, I said, “Oh, no - did someone _take_ it?”  
“No, no, it’s just that ... it’s not finished yet. It’s being finished. It’s ... it’s an oil painting and they need time to ... dry. Don’t worry.”  
She smiled at me reassuringly. 

“Don’t worry about what?” said Mr Montgomery, making me jump with his sudden, and silent, appearance.  
“I was just wondering what’d happened to the painting,” I said, pointing at the empty space on the wall.  
“Ah, yes, indeed. His majesty’s portrait has been removed for re-framing,” Montgomery said smoothly. “No doubt it will be returned to its rightful place quite soon.”  
“She said it wasn’t finished,” I said, nodding at Pamela. “She said it was drying.”  
“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking it isn’t finished,” Mr Montgomery said. “That is to say, if it were, the painting of the portrait is finished but it hasn’t been framed yet.”  
“I thought it was being re-framed?”  
“It had been framed but his majesty didn’t like it, so he sent it back for re-framing,” said Mr Montgomery quickly. “Once the paint has dried, it shall go back up on the wall.”

Pamela smiled at him, nodding her head.  
She mouthed something at him and I couldn’t shake the feeling that it looked like, _Well done_.

He and Pamela smiled at me encouragingly, then she took my elbow again and gently steered me through the double doors that led to the staff area. She chattered non-stop, not giving me a chance to ask any more questions, leading me to a small office that had been obviously set up for my purposes. She waited till I had photocopied my notes for the king, then left, leaving me with Mr Montgomery. He escorted me back up to my apartment and bid me a pleasant day-sleep.

“If there is anything else you require,” he said, “please let me know.”  
“There is one thing,” I replied and he froze, as though expecting a punch in the gut, so I said hurriedly, “The wifi password? For my phone? I have no internet connection here; I don’t have an American SIM card yet.”  
His face relaxed.  
“I sadly cannot help you there, Ms Kennick, but I shall have one of the palace technicians connect you tomorrow evening.”  
“Thanks,” I said, my stomach sinking.  
I had so much to Google, I barely knew where to begin. Probably with: how did King Eric manage to ascend to his throne?  
“Good day,” Mr Montgomery said, closing the door softly. “So wonderful to have you back, Ms Kennick.”  
“Wonderful to be back,” I answered automatically – but I wasn’t sure if it was true.


	12. Chapter 12

“So she’s on to us?” Eric grinned, pushing her notes around the desk.  
“How long am I supposed to keep this up?” Pam wailed. “Of course she’s on to us! I can’t leave her alone for a second in case someone blabs.”  
“None of the vampires will say anything on the pain of the True Death, and any of the humans who knew her have been glamoured or fired.”

He stood up, one of Maggie’s pages in his hands.   
“Easy-peasy,” he said and looked sideways at his progeny.  
“You are a stupid, stupid man,” she said, shaking her head. “I literally left her alone for five minutes this evening and in that time, some wretch told her that you and your queen had staked Queen Catherine. _Why did he stake her, Pamela? Where’s his wife, Pamela? Why is this whole fucking project total chaos, Pamela?_ ” 

Pam’s poor attempt at imitating Maggie’s Irish accent made Eric laugh out loud.   
“And where is this tattling wretch now?” he asked.  
“Glamoured and fired,” Pam said unhappily. “Pity, too, because she was competent. And cute.”

Eric shrugged.   
“Magdalena’s going to find out sooner or later,” he said nonchalantly. “I’d prefer sooner. The longer the subterfuge continues, the more it’s going to cost me. When she finds out, I can put a halt to this charade and send them all packing. Josh Carbury keeps trying to send me sketches of some fucking museum I have no intention of building.”  
“Yes, imagine,” Pam said drily. “You hired him to design a building and he had the _audacity_ to try to do it. Shame on him.”

Eric grinned at her, sitting on the edge of the desk. Pamela joined him, looking him up and down.  
“You like this, don’t you?” she said accusingly.   
“Like what?” he asked with a poor pretence at innocence.  
"You're almost giddy with excitement," she complained.  
" _Giddy?_ "  
“You love it: the hunt. The game of cat-and-mouse. The - what did you call it? – the subterfuge. I almost feel sorry for Maggie.”  
“I told you that I intend to woo her, Pam,” he said. “Wouldn’t you be bowled over if someone pulled something like this out of thin air, just to win you back?”  
“No,” she replied shortly. “You’re a thousand years old, Eric. Have you learned nothing about women? When she cottons on to what’s going on, she will put the leg of the nearest chair through your unbeating heart.”  
“Mmm,” he said, his voice husky. “I can’t wait. Our little Magdalena in a temper, a real red-headed fury.”  
He bit his bottom lip in anticipation and he peered at Pam, his eyes full of mischief.

Exasperated, his progeny stood up and smoothed down her skirt.  
“So when are you going to ... _reveal_ yourself to her?” she asked, leaning on the word reveal to emphasise the _double entendre_.   
“I was thinking it might happen ... organically,” Eric said. “Let her ... stumble across me.”   
“Stumble across you and fall on your penis?” asked Pam crossly. “I don’t think so. I’ve said it from the start: call her in here tomorrow evening and come clean. Then work it the fuck out together, if there’s anything to be salvaged from this clusterfuck of a relationship.”  
Her scarlet nails made vicious air-quotes, like scratches.  
“Or _my_ way,” Eric said. “Which I like better.”  
Pamela snorted.   
“Fine,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “In that case, I’m just going to sit back with my popcorn and watch the shit hit the fan. You do you, hun, and don't say I didn't warn you.”


	13. Chapter 13

By the end of my third night, I almost quit.  
Like, I came _this close_.

It seemed as if I were being blocked at every turn: I had been given a vampire assistant, a young woman called Willa, who didn’t seem to know very much about the job. She’d just been hired, she told me, and given to me because she was from New Orleans and “knew people”. I would have preferred someone who knew fewer people and more about, say, taking notes or ten-finger typing. Instead, I had the distinct feeling that her real task was to follow me around and make sure I wasn’t asking the wrong questions or consorting with the wrong people. She was like a pretty little dark-haired doll, one that was constantly at my elbow, gawping at me with her big, long-lashed eyes.

And certainly, any time I looked around, I caught her staring at me – whereupon she would shift awkwardly and look away.  
_What was wrong with me?_ I wondered, casting a discreet glance into a mirror we passed. _Did I have jam on my face? Was my hair sticking up?_  
No, all was well – as well as could be expected – outwardly, anyway.  
Maybe it was my red hair? Some vampires didn’t like redheads, an old throwback from the days when they were thought to be witches or sorceresses.  
_But she's too young to know about that,_ I reasoned. _She’s barely been turned a decade._  
No, it was probably because I was a carrier – no doubt she could smell me, I'd caught her discreetly sniffing when I passed – and probably because I was a foreigner, brought in to the New Orleans court to take on the King’s big project. 

And, oh, the _project_.

I don’t know what had come over the king – the basic concept seemed entirely whimsical and I wondered if he’d put any thought into it at all. By dawn the second day I had fired the vampire hired to scout for locations, because I had the distinct feeling – backed up by the architect, Josh, - that he was pushing properties and sites on us that no one else would touch. The whole thing stank of backhanders and I had no doubt that he was trying to offload some shitty floodplain at an exorbitant price, creaming off a nice little cut for himself from the profit.

But the straw that very nearly broke the camel’s back was my Internet access, or rather: lack thereof.  
I had a computer at my desk in the tiny office – made tinier with an extra desk pushed in for Willa – and neither of our computers had internet access. I phoned reception and asked for a technician or someone from IT, but they just put me on hold for five minutes, only to inform me that the IT manager had gone to ground and would come by the following evening.

“But it’s only 3 a.m.!” I said, looking at my watch.  
“He’s very tired,” the receptionist apologised. “It is quite late.”  
“For crying out loud!” I cried out loud when I put down the phone.

Willa looked at me, pulling a face that I felt was supposed to approximate sympathy.  
“Aw, that’s so annoying, Miz Kennick. But if you need to look anything up, I can just check it for you on my phone.”  
“I want to be able to check it on my _own_ phone,” I growled, patience at an end. “Surely there must be more than one person in this whole damned place who knows the WiFi password.”  
“You sure would think so,” she agreed wide-eyed. “My, oh my.”  
“Can you order me a SIM card?” I said, whirling back to my screen. “A pay-as-you-go thing would be fine, it’s only for a month. Get someone to pick one up for me from the nearest store?  
She hesitated, then smiled brightly at me.  
“Sure! Sure, no problem, Miz Kennick. I’ll organise that for you straight away tomorrow night.”  
“What about now?”  
“Well, see, it’s close to dawn – ”  
“It’s only 3 a.m.,” I said again, showing her my wristwatch.  
“Why, that’s true,” she agreed, still wide-eyed. “It sure is.”

I looked at her. Was she deliberately trying to piss me off?  
I opened my mouth to say something but was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door, and Pamela pushed her head in.  
“Hey, girls,” she purred. “How are y’all doing?”  
“I have no internet access,” I said, straight to the point. “I need to have access to the internet. And I also need to have access to the Louisiana’s vault; there’s no point in planning a damned museum if we don’t even know what we have to exhibit. Your location scout is a con-man, the architects don’t even know where to begin and the bloody PR team are already trying to get the Louisiana Chamber of Commerce to agree to a date for a Vampire Culture day, even though we haven’t got any fucking vampire culture to show for it.”

Pamela made a show of flinching at my sharp tone.  
“Why, Maggie,” she said. “So _cross_. So much _negativity_.”  
“Pamela,” I replied, “I’m serious about this: I need to be able to use my computer and my phone. I have to get down into the basement and start sorting the artefacts with a palace team. And then – only then – can we start drawing up blueprints for buildings.”  
“Sounds like you know exactly what you’re doing right there,” she smiled.  
She was doing it too, that Southern thing: I looked around at Willa and she was also beaming at me in that _aw,-shucks-bless-your-heart_ way that really meant, _aw-shucks,-sucks-to-be-you_.

“Fine,” I snapped. “I want to see the king. I need ... what do you call it? An audience with him.”  
“With the king?” Pamela said, as though it were preposterous.  
“Yeah,” I said, standing up. I walked out from behind my desk to face her. That is: stand in front of her and look up at her, towering above me. “He’s my employer, after all, and nominally in charge of this project. So, yeah, I want to see the king. We have stuff to discuss – for goodness’ sake, I don’t even have a budget, Pammie.”  
My hand shot over my mouth the second the endearment came out of my mouth.  
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know where that came from. Sorry for being so familiar.”  
“It’s fine,” the blond vampire replied. She looked at me for a second, blushing furiously in front of her. “It’s been a while since anyone called me ... Pammie.”

She regarded me for a moment or two.  
“I have no doubt that we can arrange an audience for you in the coming nights.”  
“How about tonight?”  
“Well, it’s very – ”  
“Don’t say it’s late!” I growled.  
“I wanted to say it’s very _spontaneous_ ,” she said.  
She narrowed her eyes, thinking a little. “See, it’s just that the king is in his office on the second floor – you know, straight up the main stairs, past the tacky reproduction of the Venus de Milo and up the stairs marked _staff only_ , first door on the left, opposite the atrium, - and I’m pretty sure he’ll be there till dawn looking over the accounts for the past month. So I don’t think he’ll have any time for meetings tonight.”

I raised an eyebrow.  
“But I’ll do my utmost to ensure that you are granted an audience with him as soon as a slot opens right up,” Pamela said in her most honeyed voice and smirked, managing to make it sound vaguely dirty. She looked down at me and gave me a knowing nod. “Now, I’m just going to borrow Willa here for a couple of minutes, if you don’t mind. Willa - ?”  
Willa stood, looking confused.  
“But –” she began.  
“ _Willa!_ ” Pamela snapped and beckoned her with a cerise pink talon.  
Willa followed her out of the office, whispering fiercely. I could only catch a couple of words, “ _But Eric said –_ ” before the door shut behind her. 

I waited a couple of minutes, before I peeped out the door. I gathered up my folder, my notepad and pen and sprinted down the corridor, past the shocked faces of the vampires in the office next to mine, and head straight up the main stairs, past the tacky reproduction of the Venus de Milo and up the stairs marked _staff only_ , to first door on the left, opposite the atrium. The two vampire guards at the door looked at me with a strange look on their faces and when I looked at them more closely, I realised with surprise that I knew who they were.

“Hi Tony, hi Carlos,” I said happily. “Hey, nice to see you again! How are you guys?”  
They looked at each other warily.  
“Fine, Miz Kennick. You here – ” Carlos cleared his throat, glancing at Tony, who stared studiously over my shoulder, looking as though he were trying to pretend I wasn’t there.  
“You got an appointment with the king?” Carlos continued.  
“Yes,” I said boldly and before they could stop me, I pushed between them, rapped on the large wooden door and pushed it open a crack. “Your majesty?” I called.

The door was pulled open with alacrity, causing me to jump.  
And I gasped out loud when I saw who stood behind it because there, as I lived and breathed – unlike the creature in front of me – was John Magnusson.  
“Hello Magdalena,” he said, grinning broadly. “Please come in.”


	14. Chapter 14

“No way,” I said. “No way. _You’re_ Eric Northman. _King_ Eric. No way.”  
“Yes way,” he answered insouciantly and strolled back to his enormous desk.  
He sat down behind it, straightening papers as he did so.

“I have a right to another human present,” I said quickly. "I can ask for another human to be in the room, so that's what I want to do."  
“Please sit down, Magdalena,” he said. “You may have a human present if you wish, but I assure you it is not necessary. We can leave the door open if you wish."  
I looked out at the stiff backs of his two guards and at that moment, two secretaries walked by with a stack of files in their arms. They looked curiously in the door at us, then scurried on, whispering.  
"Okay," I said reluctantly.  
He would hardly eviscerate me with his staff strolling by, would he?

I moved slowly, reluctantly, to the leather chair in front of his desk and watched as he leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out, so the toes of one of his feet were almost touching mine.  
I pulled my legs away discreetly, tucking them in under my chair.

"I am aware we started on the wrong foot," he began abruptly. "I apologise for my behaviour."  
"What were you doing in Ireland?" I shot back.  
"Hiking," he answered simply.  
"Hiking?"  
_A hiking Viking?_  
An absurd desire to giggle overcame me and I had to stare at my shoes to suppress it.  
"The Wild Atlantic Way," he replied smoothly. "It's beautiful. Have you done it? I really recommend it."

I said nothing, just raised an eyebrow.  
"You don't think that our meeting was a coincidence?" he enquired.  
I said nothing; looked away.  
"You seriously think ... I ... what? Tracked you down?" he continued, his voice amused. "You made such an impression on me in your function as a ..." he paused for effect and then resumed, his lips twitching, " ... an _archivist_ that I simply had to find you and offer you a job?"

He sounded like he was holding back laughter and put like that, it did sound a bit ridiculous.  
I blushed and cleared my throat.  
"No," I said. "But you did give us a false name. You have to admit that's kind of weird."  
"Sometimes I need a bit of peace and quiet," he said, raising his palms in a shrug. "I'm entitled to that, too, aren't I? Even as the King of Louisiana?"  
"Yes," I said. "I suppose so."

We stared at each other for a couple of moments.  
His gaze was kindly, but he was looking at me the way a scientist might study an insect.  
Before he took a scalpel and dissected it.

"I am aware of your background and training," he said, and I was suddenly aware of how _very_ aware he was of my background and training.  
Aside from the fact that I belonged to one of Europe’s most esteemed human families, I was pretty sure his study of my qualifications extended far beyond my Linked In profile. I was willing to bet that Mr Magnusson, a.k.a. King Eric, had an extensive dossier on me in one of the deep drawers of his mahogany desk.

“And I would like to avail of your particular ... skills,” he continued briskly.  
"Why me?" I asked.  
"Because no one will be able to resist that cute Irish accent," he grinned, leaning forward.  
" _Hmmm._ "  
It wasn't a satisfying answer.

"Look." He sat upright suddenly, smile gone, his face serious. He leaned in to fix me with his deep-set eyes. "I know you don't think much of me based on our last encounter, but I am asking that we start over. Consider it an aberration, a deviation from my normal code of behaviour, for which I have no explanation.”  
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and added, “None that you will find logical anyway."

Northman stood up.  
"This is an important project and it's one I'm personally funding. If you're not prepared to be a part of it or if our previous meeting has impaired your ability to work for the Court of Louisiana, please feel free to consider your contract terminated without further ado. No bad feelings, no rancour. The non-disclosure agreement naturally stands."

I thought it over quickly.  
He seemed serious enough, a very different vampire to the near-naked man that had tried in vain to lure innocent women into his room back in Ballygar. And I needed the job – boy, did I need this job. I really needed to get my foot back on the career ladder, even if it meant working with a radiator-wrecking Viking. 

Against my better judgement, I nodded my head slowly. I would just have to be on my toes, all the time.  
"Okay," I said. "I think we could work together. At a professional distance, you understand."  
He smiled at me.  
"Good," he said. "I am looking forward to it."  
His words made me shiver.  
"I'll go then?" I had intended to make it a statement, but it came out as a question, a quiver.  
"One more thing," he said, coming around to the front of the desk. "You are a carrier, aren't you?"  
"Yes," I said quietly.

He sat down on the edge of the desk in front of me.  
I had a nice view of his crotch, so I looked down at my hands and smoothed my trousers nervously.  
"Do you belong to a vampire?" he asked in that same friendly _scientist-with-an-insect_ tone.  
"No," I said, even more quietly. "But I'm one of the Five Families, so I don't need to belong to a vampire – "  
"In Europe," he finished. "But you're not in Europe now, Magdalena. So I'll claim you to make sure no other vampire gets any ideas."  
"No, thank you," I said with alacrity. 

I knew what being claimed by a vampire meant and I didn't fancy it one bit.  
"It's a courtesy," he said mildly. "You will be known as my guest, not my property. I wouldn't do anything ... _untoward_."  
I stifled a snort.  
The first time I'd met this man he had been very – well, toward.  
"As long as you don't get any ideas," I said.  
"No ideas," he promised.

He smiled at me, then leaned forward again to look deep in my eyes.  
I squirmed away, looking over his shoulder, trying to avoid having him in my body-space.  
"If you're trying to glamour me, it doesn't work," I said to his shoulder.  
Northman leaned back, folded his hands over his broad chest.  
"I know," he said. "You told me already. And no vampire has ever managed to glamour you?"  
"No. Never."  
"Never?"  
_What the fuck?_ I thought.  
"Never," I growled.  
"Interesting," he said and looked at me with the same expression Ms de Beaufort had had: curiosity tinged with pity.  
That was it: pity.

"Sleep well, Ms Kennick," he said, snapping me out of my thoughts. "You will have a busy night tomorrow. I hope you will be well rested by the time twilight comes."  
He went back behind the desk and nodded at the door.  
I attempted a wobbly curtsy and left.


	15. Chapter 15

I needed a drink.  
Dear God, I needed a _lot_ of drinks, but one would have to do.

I checked my watch, glancing reflexively at the windows as I did. The palace shutters were still up, which meant that I had a little time before dawn. Instead of returning to my office or going to bed, I made a detour and headed for one of the palace’s bars. The bigger one, overlooking the large ornamental pool of the central courtyard, was full of tourists, so I went to the smaller, less ostentatious bar closer to the staff quarters. It was the preferred haunt of the vampires who worked in the palace and some of the visitors who wanted more low-key surroundings.

I ignored the stares of the vampires at the little tables, who all looked up when they caught my scent. Some stared openly, others glanced discreetly before returning to their human companions. But they could all smell me, just as I could smell them as I passed – leather, ginger, curry; sea, forest, rain. Each bore a trace, a fingerprint, of their human life. When I was upset, the smell of vampire could make me nearly gag, like being locked in a warm room with a wet dog. This was one such night: by the time I had got to the bar, I had decided to order a wine and take it up to my room, unable to stick the stares and the sniffing a moment longer.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking – ” said a woman, and I whirled around, ready to snap.  
The vampire beside me was small and a little plump, with a wide smile. Her dark hair had a purple streak at the front and she was wearing a pinafore dress over stripy leggings.  
“ – but are you ok?”  
“Sorry?” I asked, the wind taken out of my sails.  
“You seem a little upset, I just wanted to make sure you’re ok.”  
“I’m fine,” I replied and, aware that I sounded a bit surly, I added, “But it’s very kind of you to ask. Thank you.”  
“You’re welcome.”

She hesitated, as though she wanted to ask me something else, then turned to man sitting on the barstool beside her.  
The barkeeper handed me my wine and took my money.  
“Ask her,” the male vampire whispered.  
I caught his eye.  
His dark hair was closely shorn and he wore glasses. They were purely a fashion accessory, I knew, because his sight was probably perfect, but somehow they suited him. His face was angular and the black-rimmed glasses made him look a bit like a college professor from the sixties, back when they wore bow-ties and tweed jackets.  
He was staring at me intently, barely able to drag his eyes away.  
“I can’t,” the little vampire replied.

She saw me looking at her and ducked her head, embarrassed.  
“I’m a carrier,” I said. “That’s what you smell. There aren’t many of us in the US, so a lot of vamps pick up on it over here.”  
The female’s face crumpled in relief.  
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I’m brand-new, see, so my husband had to explain it to me – “  
And she held out her hand to show me the ring with the ruby stone, which had become the latest fad among American vampires: when a vampire was turned, he or she received a blood-red ruby from their maker as a token of commitment.  
Kind of like a promise ring, but with far graver consequences. 

"Ah,” I said. “Congratulations.”  
I nodded at the man, who looked at me curiously.  
“I’m Josephine Wallis, Jo – and this is my maker, Bran, like I said,” she said, grabbing his elbow affectionately. He slung an arm around her shoulder and pulled her in, then smiled at me, as though sharing a joke, giving her an affectionate little squeeze. They made a cute couple.  
“I’m Maggie Kennick,” I said, pocketing the change the barman set in front of me.  
“You’re not from around here?” he asked.  
“Nope, and neither are you, I guess,” I grinned.  
Neither of them had a southern accent, so I guessed they were honeymooning – bloodmooning, was the correct term for it – in New Orleans.

He laughed, nodding at me approvingly.  
“Touché,” he replied and his wife said, “We’re from Canada, just down here on holidays. Are you British? Do you work here?”  
“Irish,” I replied with a smile, trying to extricate myself from an inquisition by keeping my answers as short as I could without being rude.  
I picked up my wine and said, “Yes, I work for the king, actually. Met him for the first time tonight – hence the wine!”  
I raised my glass in a mock salute and the two vampires nodded in an _oh-I-see_ way. 

“For the first time?” the man remarked. “Intense. We haven’t seen him yet, have we, Jo?”  
“No,” she answered, a little downcast. “We were hoping we might see him, maybe get a photo with him or something.”  
“He’s a bit cranky,” I said. “I might be mistaken, but my impression is that he’s not the kind you’d ask for a photo from.”  
She looked to her husband, pleadingly.  
“But we’ll ask anyway if we see him,” he assured her, kissing her forehead. “I promise, babe.”  
_Aww,_ I thought. _I wish I had a nice man who kissed my forehead and promised take selfies with angry kings._  
“Anyway, it was really nice meeting you both. I hope you enjoy your stay here,” I said.  
“Thank you,” Jo said. “Enjoy your wine. I bet you deserve it.”

And she gave me a wide grin, her streak of purple hair falling into her eyes.  
Her vampire husband laughed and grinned at me again, raising his own glass as I smiled my own goodbye and left. 

. . . . . . . . . . . 

By the time my seventh night came, I felt as though I was slowly getting a handle on the assignment. 

Not that I was actually making any substantial progress, oh no, but I was starting to get groups of people organised to take on aspects of the project and report back. To Pamela’s chagrin, I had put the brakes on the Vampire Culture Parade and had instead set the PR team to work creating an overview of their current PR strategy, and the architect had found two possible sites that might, legitimately, be suited to the kind of thing King Eric seemed to have in mind. 

My constant nagging had gained me access to some of the pieces that had been catalogued in Louisiana’s inventory, with the promise that I would be given full access in a matter of time. (No definite date or anything, just a vague promise of “soon”.) I got in touch with a few people I knew in the US who could help me with carbon dating and tried to establish what we knew about the provenance of the artefacts, so we could check them for authenticity. This was the kind of stuff I actually liked, the detective work and gentle restoration that surrounded the delicate jewellery and porcelain, the pewter and the paintings. 

During the course of the night, the king occasionally turned up without a warning, causing flutter of excitement or alarm among the assembled vampires and humans. He could be magnanimous and gracious, but he tended to reduce the humans to quivering wrecks if he was feeling impatient or snappy. He was clever, I discovered. He could grasp the essence of an issue faster than we could explain what the issue was, and his judgement, though often brutal in that cold, vampire way, was impeccably fair, just devoid of any touchy-feely ... humanity. He never stayed long, departing with a curt, “Ms Kennick will bring me up to speed later,” leaving the room with his long strides, rapping the door frame as a swift farewell as he went. 

And so, every night towards dawn, I walked up the two flights of stairs, greeted Carlos and Tony, knocked on the door and waited to be asked in. Every night, the king came forward and ushered me inside, gesturing to a chair at a small conference table where I could lay out the night’s papers for him. 

Northman always sat by my side, not touching me, and we pored over the documents on his desk, his long finger poking diagrams and charts, asking questions. He always left the door open, he was always faultlessly polite. He listened carefully, intently, and took notes in his own scrawling handwriting. There was always a pot of black tea and a little jug of milk for me, which I found particularly conscientious. 

After a couple of nights, I began to relax a little in his company and he became less stiffly attentive and formal.  
There was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, a kind of familiarity that I thought stemmed from our encounter in Ballygar – kind of complicity.  
It kind of bugged me till, just as I was gathering up the photos of some of the potential exhibits, getting ready to leave, I blurted out,  
“What was up with you in Ireland? I mean – what was that all about?”  
He looked at me, bug-eyed, and I swear he would have blushed if he could.  
“Like I said,” he replied slowly, “It was an aberration.”  
“What did you think was going to happen?” I said, unable to let it go.  
He shrugged, not looking at me.  
“I was ... I was on holiday. I thought you were ... I misread the situation,” he finished quickly. “My mistake. I often have people, women, offering ... favours and I misunderstood. A gross misunderstanding and I apologise.” He cleared his throat. “I would appreciate it if we could let it go.”

I looked at him but he wouldn’t meet my eye, uncomfortable, so I let him off the hook.  
“So you agree to let me have these items carbon-dated?” I asked, tactfully changing the subject.  
“Yes,” he said. “But I don’t think you need to have the little silver box dated, I’m pretty certain that’s from the Caliphate and we may have documents somewhere to that effect in the vampire state library.”  
The king looked up at me.  
“I believe you may’ve been responsible for handling those documents when you worked here?” he asked delicately.

Good God in heaven. I couldn’t remember. Had I?  
But I nodded confidently, making a mental note to get my ass down to the documents archive before the vampires rose the following evening to find out.  
“It probably came over to Louisiana during the Spanish colonial era,” I said. “Some of Charlemagne’s vampire knights stayed on in the Iberian Peninsula, so it stands to reason that this might have been in their possession.”  
King Eric reached out and passed me a photo from his side of the table.  
“I doubt it,” he said shortly. “Charlemagne didn’t fight in Spain.”  
“Of course he did!” I cried. “The Battle of Roncevaux Pass? The Battle of Tours?”  
He looked at me blankly.  
“I don’t think so,” he murmured in a tone that suggested that I was just being a silly little human.  
“Well then, let’s Google it,” I snapped.  
“Hardly necessary,” he murmured.  
“Why is it hardly necessary? Because I’m _right_?”  
I raised a snooty eyebrow and he looked at me, not even trying to hide his amusement.  
“Go on,” I said. “Google it. If you _dare_ ,” I added coquettishly, pretending to look at my nails.

King Eric grinned broadly and gestured towards his computer with a regal wave. I went behind his desk, plumping down in his large chair, my legs dangling as it had been adjusted to fit the monarch’s tall frame. The king placed himself behind me, leaning down to click the mouse and log on. I felt the cold emanating from his body, the smell of salt, of sweetness, and fought a strange urge to turn my head so my cheek would brush his.

The screen sprang to life and I clicked the browser icon, quickly Googling _Charlemagne_ , the Holy Roman Emperor of the Dark Ages.  
“Why is this so important to you anyway?” he asked mildly, crouching down to my level. He put a long arm across the back of the chair to steady himself as he peered at the monitor. When I moved, my shoulder blades brushed the skin on his arm, so I didn't move, perched on his chair like a bird on a branch.  
"Because you're mansplaining history to me, your majesty."  
He laughed again, turning the chair a little so I was facing him,  
“Mansplaining?” he said again, his eyes crinkling with delight. “I love it!”  
He was grinning at me in a way that felt familiar, like we had some little in-joke to share, and I returned his smile, unsure.

I pulled away and opened Wikipedia.  
"Look," I said triumphantly, pointing at the screen.  
He glanced at the entry for the Holy Roman Emperor and shrugged dismissively.  
"It's wrong. And I would know," he said smartly. "I was his contemporary, after all."  
"You weren't," I shot back. "You hadn't even been born when Charlemagne died. Look, year of death: 814."  
Then he leaned back on his heels and studied me, his high forehead wrinkled in thought.  
"You're right," Northman said finally. "I hadn't even been born when he died. Funny you should know that."  
He just kept looking at me, making me feel flustered, standing to let me return to the table without saying a word.  
I gathered up my notes and shoved them back into my folder.

“See you tomorrow night," I said briskly and gave the little wobble that was as close as I could get to a curtsey.  
He nodded his head, still looking at me thoughtfully. 

I left the room and was overtaken by Mr Montgomery, who half-walked, half-ran to keep up with me.  
"Would you tell me if something weird were going on?" I asked him bluntly.  
"Oh... Oh my," he said, on an expiring breath. "What kind of something weird?"  
He gnawed his lower lip as he held a door open for me.  
"I don't know, like something weird with the king," I said, exasperated. "He behaves weirdly towards me; I can't put my finger on it. Sometimes he's very stand-offish and professional; other times, he's kind of ... familiar. It gives me the creeps."

We took the wide stairs that led down to the main lobby.  
Mr Montgomery couldn't answer me because he had to nod and greet every member of staff we passed. It seemed to me as though he were deliberately going out of his way to say hello to every single soul, living and undead, rather than answer me directly.

I waited till we took the turn off for the staff quarters and then said, "Well?"  
He opened and closed his mouth, then said, "His majesty is quite odd in his ways, it is true."  
"So it's not just me, then?"  
"No, Ms Kennick. I think it might be safe to say that King Eric is weird to everyone."

We stopped at the door of my office.  
“Will you be retiring for the day now?” he asked.  
“I’m going to pick up a glass of wine,” I said “And then do some work upstairs.”  
I would probably linger for a few minutes and chat to the Canadian couple, who seemed to finish their night in New Orleans with a glass of Tru Blood around the time I went to bed, but I didn’t need to tell Mr Montgomery that or he’d shadow me down to the bar as well.  
"Then I wish you a pleasant and restful sleep, Ms Kennick," he said and opened the door for me in his courteous way.  
I waited till he was gone, then went downstairs to get my wine and talk to vampires who knew nothing about ancient history.


	16. Chapter 16

On my way down the stairs to work the following night, I encountered Pam, who was dressed up to the nines coming up the steps in her languorous way, hips swaying seductively in a tight skirt.  
“Where are you going?” she asked.  
“To work,” I replied.  
“It’s Sunday,” she said. “The humans won’t work on Sunday and neither will most of the vampires. Day of rest, blah, blah, blah.”  
“They worked last Sunday,” I pointed out.  
“Yes, but that was because you’d just arrived. They’re not going to turn up tonight. You surely didn’t have any meetings planned, did you?”

I didn’t, but I had thought I could spend the night in the palace archive, looking up the documents King Eric had mentioned, albeit with Willa breathing down my neck – figuratively, of course.  
Now it would probably be closed for the night if everyone had gone home.  
I sighed.

“You look nice,” I remarked, as we descended the steps together.  
She did: she was wearing a silver shift dress and dangling silver earrings.  
“I have a date,” she confided, then looked at me archly, taking in my plain black pants and cotton shirt. “And so do you, actually. I was on my way to tell you that the king cordially invites you to his quarters for drinks at midnight.”  
“Thank you but no thank you,” I said with alacrity.  
“You have been summoned,” she said.  
“I have been _invited_ ,” I corrected “And I decline with regret, but I have work to do.”

I smiled at her crisply, turning on my heel and heading through the double doors that lead to the offices and archive.  
From behind me I heard Pamela exclaim, “Well, well, well!” but I didn’t turn around.

The room that housed Louisiana’s sensitive state documents was, indeed, locked but I pushed the heavy door anyway. I glanced around, but the corridor was empty. My eye was caught by the sight of the card reader and my fingers flew to the ID card that hung from the lanyard around my neck. 

Impulsively, I held it up to the reader and my name, KENNICK MAGD., appeared on the tiny display. I was ordered to put my thumb on the fingerprint reader. I did - and one by one the row of little red lights turned green as the doors’ locks slid open.  
There was a short beep and I pushed the door, letting myself quickly inside.

I locked the door behind me, looking around. Suddenly I felt I was in familiar territory again, slipping past the reception desk and using my card to open the door that led to the room beyond where shelves and shelves of binders and boxes held a variety of scrolls and papers. This is where I’d worked during my time in Louisiana and little had changed. I found the section that was home to copies of any documents the monarchy had on items that belonged to the state and, pulling out the files, I quickly located the file for the little silver box that had originated in Spain during the 7th century.  
He was right, I thought.  
The notes written up on the box were mine, initialled by me. Re-reading them, it all came rushing back as though it were yesterday. I could remember holding the box up, remember the feeling of the cotton gloves on my hands, remember telling someone to be careful – who? 

Carefully, slowly, I worked through the contents of a couple of the shelves, noting anything I wanted to have taken out of storage and making some copies on the photocopier for myself. I pulled out all the files I needed, till I had a sizeable stack and left a list of what I had taken for the day archivist. Balancing them carefully, I shut the doors behind me and left the room, swiping my card to lock the door from the outside. 

Struggling to keep the files in my arms, I looked at my watch – it was almost one o’clock.  
I had stood the king up.  
_Not on purpose,_ I thought.  
Ok, not entirely on purpose. I had not looked at my watch once while I was ensconced in the archive – _that_ was on purpose.  
That I had consequently lost track of time was just a ... a side effect.

Pamela caught me again on the stairs, but this time she was not as good-humoured.  
“Where on earth have you been?” she cried. “The whole palace is looking for you!”  
“I was down in the archive,” I said.  
“What were you doing in the _archive_?”  
“My job,” I replied. “I was doing my _job_.”  
I held up the files for her to see.

“Somebody should’ve been with you,” she said, her voice barely above a hiss. “Eric is seriously pissed.”  
“Why on earth is he pissed?” I said, stopping in my tracks. “I told you to send him my regrets. I don’t have time for Tru Blood and chitchat; I’m doing what he hired me to do. And I don’t need a bodyguard, Pam, I’m perfectly capable of finding my way around the archive. I used to work there, remember?”  
She glared at me.  
“Or is there something you’d rather I didn’t see?” I asked archly. “Because it feels like I’m missing something here, like I’m not being told the full story.”  
Her tongue darted out, ran over her perfectly-applied lipstick – blood-red tonight – and she said, “Not being told the full story? Now, what would give you _that_ idea?”  
“That!” I shot back. “That right there – that sarcasm, that irony. What are you not telling me?”

She mustered me, about to say something, then bit her bottom lip as though she were making a physical effort to hold something in check.  
“Nothing,” she said finally. She looked at the stack of papers in my arms and said, “I take it you will be busy with them for the rest of the night?”  
“Yes,” I said shortly. “I’m going to take them back to my rooms, if that’s ok?”  
“I’m sure that will be fine. I’ll tell the king you will be ... working from home this evening.”  
She gave me a cool smile and walked back downstairs.

I huffed and heaved my heavy load back to my rooms, where I spent the rest of the night reading the notes I had made when I’d last been in King Eric’s employ.  
.....

Just as I was beginning to get tired, shortly after 5 a.m., the electronic display beside the apartment door lit up and there was a series of beeps, like an alarm. It was the control unit for the air conditioning and the heat, as well as having a small display showing the corridor outside. When I went over to check out what was making the noise, I saw the word ALARM! superimposed on the grainy picture of the hall – and on closer inspection, someone lurking outside the door.  
I squinted: it looked like Carlos – just standing outside my room.

I pulled the door open.  
“Carlos?” I asked, suprised.  
“Ma’am,” he replied.  
“What are you doing here? And do you know why the alarm is going off?”  
He looked startled, put his head around the door and pressed a few buttons.  
The beeping stopped.

“The king asked me to stay outside in case – in case you needed anything,” he said.  
He was distracted, looking down the corridor behind us.  
“Is everything in order?” I asked. “What was the alarm for? Should I be worried?”  
“Might be a security breach,” he replied. “Probably a false alarm. But best you go inside, ma’am, just in case.”

I was about to say more, but he put his hand on the holster of his gun and the sudden sight of it made me want to pull back inside as fast as I could.  
Watching him on the little screen, I saw him speak to someone on his walkie-talkie. He nodded vigorously, then I could see him visibly relax.  
_False alarm_ , I thought in relief.

I returned to my work, jittery after the scare. Deep in the Bible Belt, the vampires were a constant potential target for hate groups and although the king did his best to keep the security discreet, there was a small troop of armed guards surrounding the palace at all times. And now, it seemed, I even had to have one outside my door. It was a sobering reminder of one aspect of working for vampires that I had never enjoyed. 

I worked till my eyes were tired, then went over to the window to watch the first tinge of pink lightening the sky at dawn. The kitchen window overlooked the staff carpark and I saw the day staff start to arrive, ready to meet with the vampires for the shift handover before dawn. Then it hit me – I had approximately fifteen minutes’ free rein in the palace, when most of the staff would be busy briefing their day counterparts before the next shift began.  
Bingo, I chuckled. 

I tiptoed to the door and checked the little monitor: as I suspected, Carlos was gone. This was my chance: if my ID card could get me into the archive, I could also get down into the storage rooms and have a poke around without Pam or Willa trailing me, keeping stuff out of my sight and reach. 

I rubbed my hands together in delight and sneaked out of the little apartment, half-running down the hall till I reached the back stairs that led to the kitchens. On the ground floor, I heard the murmur of voices and the clattering of pots and pans as they prepared breakfast for the human guests, so I headed for the stairs that led to the basement.  
So far, so good. 

I took the steps two at at time, my hand barely touching the metal banisters, but stopped short when I came face to face with a portly vampire in the palace uniform.  
"Hey, there, Miz Kennick," he said pleasantly. "Mercy me, I heard you were back but I didn't think I'd believe it till I seen it with my own eyes."  
"Yes, I'm back ... Chester," I said, with a surreptitious glance at his name tag.  
"'Course, no one tells me anything 'cause I just work down in storage but I knew you'd be wantin' all your stuff at some point, right? That why you comin' down to me?"  
My stuff? I had _stuff_?

"That's right," I said, smiling at him.  
"You better come quick, then, I's just about to go to ground."  
We went down the stairs at a brisk pace.  
"Doesn't anyone work down here during the day?" I asked.  
"The King tryin' to rein in spending, they say, so the day guy got cut. Now they gotta a guy come in at lunchtime, he does it till I take over. Ain't the busiest part of the palace early morning, you know?"

I nodded.  
Chester took a bunch of keys off his belt and opened a metal door. Inside was a large room, as big as a basketball court, lined with shelves. I had been here a couple of times and I’d always found it a bit creepy: the place was lit by bare bulbs and the walls were naked concrete. It reminded me of the warehouse in The Raiders of the Lost Ark and in a flight of fancy, wondered if some vampire had stowed the Ark of the Covenant down here, wedged in between cardboard boxes and wooden crates. 

He led me down one aisle and pulled out two large plastic see-through boxes with KENNICK on them. One was marked 'Clothes, etc' and the other 'Misc. Pers.'  
"There're a few more back here – you want me to get them?"  
"No, it's okay," I said, trying to peer at the things in the 'Misc. Pers.' box. "I only really need this one right now."  
"You want that I carry that up to your apartment? You still in your ol' apartment?"  
"My old apartment?"  
"The one you used to live in?"  
I stared at him.  
One moment, two.  
Then I blinked.  
"Um, yes, yes, I guess I am. You don't need to carry it, thank you. It's quite light."  
I gave it a little shake to demonstrate its weight and bits of paper and books slid around inside.

He walked me back up the stairs and headed off in the other direction to, presumably, his coffin. I darted back up the stairs like a hare, the box rattling as I ran. I fumbled with my keys, opened the apartment door and went inside, tearing the box lid off so I could tip its contents on the floor. It was like the debris of a wreck – of an explosion, of a crash. The debris of a _life._

The box was full of little slips of paper and Post-Its, like someone had ripped them off my fridge. In fact, they probably were from my fridge because a pile of magnets had found each other and clung together for dear life. In my handwriting there were reminders to buy milk, a doctor's appointment on May 14. In a familiarly unfamiliar handwriting there was a list of dates: _15 June Sweden England, 16 June N Ireland Korea_ and many more. Instinctively I knew what they were: soccer matches. From the last World Cup. I'd shared my living space with a football fan. 

I felt something icy slide down into my stomach.

I grabbed a diary and threw it open; the entries were sparse, more like a record of meetings and important dates. _Theatre with PM_ – Patrick Montgomery, that was easy. Two days highlighted in yellow with _New York with Pam!!!_ scrawled across them, my apparent joy at being with Pamela de Beaufort evident in my excessive exclamation marks. And all the way through: _Date Night. Dinner with E. E & P drinks. Date Night. Cinema with E._  
Who was E?

Oh, come on. I knew who E was. Didn't I?  
I screwed my eyes shut, because I could only think of one person whose name started with E.  
And when I opened them again, my fingers found the edge of a photograph and I extracted it, as though it were hot to the touch. 

In the photo I was sitting on a black sofa next to the King of Louisiana, whose face was turned away to talk to someone behind us. It must have been some kind of party; the picture was a snapshot, I had probably just happened to glance up at the moment the photographer had pressed the button. The king's arm was draped across my shoulders in a way that indicated that it had rested there a thousand times and I was sitting close enough to him to be slightly lopsided, pulled in close to him by the sinking of the cushions beneath his greater weight.

I hissed and dropped it, wiping my fingers on my shirt.


	17. Chapter 17

I was sick to my stomach, covered my face with my hands, then pushed the offending photograph away so I didn’t have to look at it.

But I couldn’t resist; I picked it up and stared at it, at the woman who looked like me with the broad grin, the same messy hair, leaning against the crook of the king’s arm. The image gave me the shivers, a cold wave that originated between my shoulder-blades and spread throughout my body.

Again, reflexively, I looked at the window. It was brightening; I knew all of the vampires had gone to ground so I would have to wait eight or nine hours before confronting that lousy bastard with his duplicity.  
Though, if truth be told, I was sorely tempted to kick the lid of his coffin open and let him fry.

Instead, I bit my knuckles and tried to decide what to do. There would be no sleeping now, that much was certain. I was electrified, full of the adrenalin of shock, and I suddenly wanted to go back down into the storage area and get all of my other Misc. Pers. stuff to piece together the life I didn’t know I’d had. What had Chester said? No one worked in the storage facility in the morning; all the better for me.

I flung open the apartment door and found a human guard there, one I didn’t recognise.  
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said.   
“Who are you?”  
“I’m Trevor,” he said. “The king said – “  
“Spare me,” I cut him rudely short. “Come on, we’re going to go and pick up my stuff from storage.”  
He hesitated.   
“I didn’t know – “ he began but I didn’t stop to listen. I was already striding down the hallway and he scurried behind to keep up. 

The basement area outside storage was deserted, Chester’s cubby was locked and shuttered.  
I pressed my badge against the card reader but ACCESS DENIED flashed on the screen.  
I fumed. I was certain Pamela de Beaufort had changed my security clearance to make sure I didn’t do any more poking around where I wasn’t welcome.

“Well, that’s just fucking lovely,” I spat, causing Trevor to clear his throat awkwardly.  
“Can you try yours?” I asked, pointing at the card clipped to his breast pocket.  
“No, ma’am, I don’t have ...”  
I snapped it off and held it up to the reader.  
“... clearance for this level,” he finished mournfully as the reader beeped sternly.  
I cursed some more.

“What’s down there?” I asked, pointing down the corridor.  
“That’s just, um, that’s just the secure facility,” he said and appeared a trace embarrassed.  
“What’s that?” I wanted to know.  
“It’s like the, eh,” he swallowed and I saw his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Why, that would be the palace jail, ma’am.”  
“The palace has a jail?”  
“More of a holding cell, I guess,” he corrected. “Like for the young man that was apprehended last night?”  
“Which young man?”  
“You didn’t - ?”  
“I was working,” I said quickly. “I didn’t manage to have my briefing with the king.”

I added that bit as though the king and I kept each other up to speed on these issues – which, if that photograph was to be believed – may well have been the case at some point.   
Trevor’s face relaxed.  
“Ah, well, see, one of the guests was set upon and attacked by a guy just down the street from here. She’d been out doing some shopping and the Uber driver set her out down by the garden entrance – and she was attacked.”  
“Oh no!” I cried. “Was she ok?”  
“Mighty shook up, I heard. The man tried to silver her; apparently he was after her blood. Maybe an addict or something.”  
“That’s terrible, the poor thing.”  
“Yeah and she was only a baby vamp and all. Her husband was here in the hotel, only a few hundred yards away, and didn’t even know she was in danger.”

For the second time in a few short hours, I felt an odd premonition.  
“She wasn’t Canadian, was she? By any chance?”  
“Why, yes; yes, she was,” he said, surprised. “Do you know her?”  
“I do,” I replied. “And you’re sure she’s ok?”  
“Yes, one of the night staff said they had a personal audience with the king and he even offered them a few nights in the honeymoon suite, free of charge. But security around the perimeter has been stepped up a notch. He’s got more guys out on patrol now, just in case.”

Trevor smiled at me reassuringly.   
“Why is the attacker in the secure unit?” I wanted to know. “Why didn’t they just hand him over to the police? What are they doing down there? Don’t they know it goes against the terms of the Charter to work outside the scope of local law enforcement?”  
His smile faded and suddenly his face became cold, businesslike.  
“That might be a question you should best ask the king,” he said stiffly and I realised I had pushed my luck too far. “Maybe you should return to your room.”

I acquiesced. I didn’t mind losing this battle, because I was aiming to win the war.

x x x  
When I finally got to sleep, it was close to midday and consequently, I overslept.   
I woke to hammering and it took me a couple of minutes to realize it was coming from the front door.

"Wakey-wakey," Pamela trilled, rapping on my door.   
I opened it.  
"I am awake," I said coolly. "Please come in."  
She walked in, pivoting on a stiletto heel to take a good look at the place.  
"You need to put your stamp on this place," she said, looking around. "Scandinavian minimalist chic is so not you."  
"Is it not?"   
My voice was even, cool, but she didn't catch the chilly tone.  
"Oh, please," she said. "Minimalist? I don't think so."  
"More like Eric's style, isn't it? I suppose he'd love it."  
"He'd – " then she stopped, suspicious. "Yes, I'm sure he would," she conceded. "Are you ready to go?"

I indicated that she should follow me and led her into the kitchen, to the fridge, which was festooned with all of the bits and pieces I'd found in the box. There was a stack of books and folders on the table.  
"What am I supposed to be looking at?" she said. Then, in a low voice, "Oh, I see."  
In the centre of the fridge was the photo of the king and me. I tapped it.  
"What's this?" I asked.  
"Maggie," she said, throwing her hands up, "I'm sorry but Eric told me not to tell you. He warned everyone to keep away from you, he glamoured as many of the human staff as possible. He wanted you to, you know, find out organically."  
"Organically?"  
"Yes, bit by bit, gradually recover your memories and ... and, actually, I don't know what he thought would happen next."  
"So I've been glamoured, then," I concluded glumly.  
"Yes," she said apologetically.  
"By whom? You? That other dickhead?"  
"It wasn't me and it wasn't ..." she was tempted, I could see to call him a dickhead, but she caught herself and said, "it wasn't Eric. He found you like this in Ireland – he thinks it was the Empress, he just doesn't know how. Or why."  
"Did he come to get me because ... because he needed me for this job?" I asked, my voice small, hopeful. Surely he wanted me for my professional expertise?

Pamela threw back her head and snorted.  
"Oh, please," she said scornfully. "He just made this project up to lure you back."  
"But he's hired ... he's hired a dozen people. He's got guys out scouting for sites, for a location. He's got a marketing team working on a viral campaign, or whatever they call it."  
"Yeah, no, all a sham," she said cheerfully. "I mean, they all think it's real, they're being paid on a consultancy basis for this month, but they'll all be fired now you've found out. I personally didn't think you’d figure it quite this quickly, though – I’d counted on, like, ten days or two weeks. All the better, though – much cheaper in the long run."  
"Then he's an idiot," I snapped. "What did he think was going to happen? The place is full of people who used to know me and knew the two of us were, apparently, together."  
"You nearly got married, actually," Pam said.  
"Fuck off," I shot back, scornfully.  
"You really did," she said.

I shook my head in disbelief. I doubted that any vampire could glamour away a memory as monumental as that. My eyes wandered over to the fridge and I looked at the king's profile, his long arms, long fingers, his legs spread casually against mine. I had apparently once known him.   
In the Biblical manner.   
Ew.   
I felt a blush pool in my cheeks just thinking about it.

I yanked the photo off the fridge and crushed it into a ball.

"I'm sorry, Maggie," Pam said again. "And believe me, I was against this from the start. It's a ridiculous charade. But at least it was from his own bank account and not the kingdom of Louisiana's, right?"  
That spurred me into action.

"Right," I said. I grabbed my folder and pens and said, "We'd better get going, the others will be waiting for us."  
Pamela chuckled.   
"You – you think you're going to work?" she said, slightly confused.  
"I presume the king thought that I'd find out and stomp into his office, looking for an explanation," I growled. "Maybe he thought I’d fling myself at him. 'Oh, the scales have fallen from my eyes!' or some such shit Fuck that. I have a contract for the month and I'm staying for the month. And if the others have signed a contract, too, then so are they.”  
“Oh my,” Pamela said weakly.  
“Yup. We're going to continue as though nothing had happened because it’s a good idea," I said to Pam. "The concept has merit and this viability study is going to continue. We're going to keep going till the end of the month and if the project is viable, I'm going to push to have the museum built."  
"Are you serious?"  
"Deadly serious," I said. "And I'm going to make sure that dickhead pays for every single penny of it."


	18. Chapter 18

"... So we have two official options: this place is central but we're restricted by the finite amount of space available. Location-wise, it's a dream: right on the tourist trail, close to a heap of hotels, but it's going to cost an arm and a leg. Whereas the other place has everything we need space-wise, and it's cheap, to boot."  
I refused to look at him, turning my head away when he peered at me. 

I had entered the room with a polite "Good evening," and set out my papers on the desk by the window.  
Out of the corner of my eye, I'd seen him approach and extend a hand as though to touch me. I'd stepped quickly away, moving papers to show him a map that bore two circles marked in red pen, the two sites the architect had proposed.

"This one is cheap? Define cheap," Eric said, looking at me.  
I kept my head down, pretending to study the map of New Orleans and its environs.  
"Relatively," I said, glancing up briefly. "But it has virtually no infrastructure and the site is prone to flooding. So there's that."  
I shrugged and shuffled some papers.  
"They're the two official options?" he asked. "So what's the third, the unofficial option?"  
"Demolish the east wing," I said with alacrity. "Rebuild, take in some of the tennis courts. Incorporate the restaurant into the museum complex; it's too big and it's not making money. Not enough humans are willing to trek out here for a bloody steak and an off-key rendition of 'Midnight Train to Georgia', strangely enough."  
"We haven't even finished paying for the damn place and you want to knock it down?" he growled.

I raised my eyes to meet his coolly.  
"Look at the numbers," I said. "We have the infrastructure; we have a lot of key services in place. We even have a hotel on site, for crying out loud. We don't have to start from scratch."  
He glared at me and picked up one of the papers with a list of figures and ran his finger down it.  
I shrugged again.  
"It's just a suggestion," I said. "At the end of the day it's your money. Spend it whatever way you like, your majesty."  
He put the paper down and nodded thoughtfully.  
"Food for thought," I said with a fake cheery smile. I picked up my bag, my folder.  
"I can't come by tomorrow." My words were crisp, businesslike. "Josh and I are going to check out the sites by day, so I'll probably be in bed early."  
"If you went after nightfall, I could come with you if you want."  
"I don't," I said firmly. 

I stood up to leave and, quick as a flash, without looking up, his hand shot out and his fingers circled my wrist like a bangle.  
I glanced over at the open door, but the corridor was empty, the two guards standing resolutely with their backs to us.  
"Sit," he said quietly. I pulled but he wouldn't release me.  
"Sit," Eric repeated. "Please."  
I sat and he let go of my wrist.

"May I close the door?" he enquired courteously.  
"I'd rather you didn't."  
"I'm going to anyway," he said. "I was just being polite."  
He sauntered over to the door and shut it with a flick of a finger before sauntering back to sit opposite me.  
He grabbed my chair and yanked it so we were sitting face to face, knee to knee.

"Pam says you know," he said without ado.  
"Yes."  
"And?"  
"And what?"  
He stared at me.  
"What does this change?" he asked, as though I were a halfwit.  
"Nothing," I replied in the same insolent tone. "Even though I'm sure what we had was ... _lovely_ – " I infused as much scorn as I could into that one little word "- it doesn't matter any more. I don't have any feelings for you and we seem to be able to work together, so I don't see what the problem is."  
"And it doesn't bother you?" he asked. "Having been glamoured?"  
"Of course it does," I snapped. "I feel like an idiot."  
Eric looked at me, his face a little sad.  
"You promise you didn't do it?" I said.

My voice rose in a shaky squeak. I suddenly felt vulnerable, like Northman somehow knew more about me that I knew about myself. I had been on a high of anger and indignation all night, but now embarrassment was setting in – all the people who knew I'd been glamoured, all pitying me and feeling sorry for my ignorance.  
He shook his head.  
"I promise I didn't," he said softly. " _Jag svär_."  
And I believed him.  
"Pam said you made this all up," I said, "the whole project. Just to get me back." I smiled without any warmth. "Yeah... thanks for that. Gary Nolan once shoplifted a bar of crunchy nut chocolate for me when I was fourteen. This certainly beats that – in terms of effort, anyway."

Eric grinned and opened his mouth to reply but I cut in: "But I think you should keep going. I mean, I know you didn't plan to carry through with this, but you should reconsider. A lot of the people involved really think this has the potential to be a success, but you need to get more involved – like, actually start attending meetings and stuff. But not be a dick about it. You act like a real shit to minimise your interaction with other vampires and humans, but you don't have to be like that. You can be a nice person when you try."

It was a long speech and I stared him down, defiantly.  
He was doing that thing again where he was studying me, wordlessly, his face unreadable. Suddenly, he leaned forward and laid a hand on my cheek for a second. His skin was icy but his touch felt like a burn.  
I pulled back and his hand dropped.

"Very well," he said formally.  
I stood up again and so did he.  
He walked over to the door and held it open for me.  
"Is there anything else I should know?" I said, pausing at the threshold. "Anything else I can't remember?"  
He looked down the corridor, over my shoulder, before glancing down at me.  
"No," he said.  
"You're lying."  
He smiled but didn't answer my question.  
"Why did it ... why did it end between us?" I asked.  
"For the same reason most relationships end," he replied. "We wanted different things."  
He sounded a little subdued and when I looked up at him, he wouldn't meet my eye.  
"There's nothing else you should know," he murmured, opening the door. "Goodnight, Ms Kennick."

I walked off quickly before Carlos got any ideas about following me, making my way to the bar to make sure the little Canadian vampire was ok.


	19. Chapter 19

“... And then they took him into custody,” Jo finished.  
She cradled her Tru Blood like the countless cups of warm tea she’d probably held as a human.  
“That’s awful,” I said. “I’m so sorry. Are you sure you’re ok?”  
I had waited for nearly half an hour for the couple to show up, expecting to find them jittery and shook up after the attack. Instead, they seemed relaxed and calm, thoroughly unfussed by the ordeal behind them.  
A lot of which, Jo coyly informed me, had to do with their night in the honeymoon suite.  
And she glanced over at her new husband, who just looked at me conspiratorially, as though I knew what she was talking about.

It took me a moment or two, and then I did. Ah, yes.

“So the king was apologetic, then?” I wanted to know.  
“He was very charming,” Jo said. “Wasn’t he, babe?”  
“Very,” the vampire said.  
“We were planning to check out yesterday but he insisted we stay on. He offered us three nights but this guy here got five out of him.”  
She nudged her spouse teasingly.  
“Sounds like _you’re_ the one with the charm,” I said to her husband.

He rubbed a hand through his hair and shrugged modestly.  
“It was the least he could do,” he said. “Security must have been very lax if some junkie could get close enough to the place without anyone seeing him.”  
I felt the strange need to defend the king.  
“Normally the security levels are pretty high in and around the complex,” I argued. “In any case, he has more guards out patrolling now.”  
“Does he?” Bran said and I nodded firmly.  
“And what about the guy who attacked me?” Jo asked, sipping her drink. “Have the police released him?”

I looked around furtively.  
“I think they might be keeping him here,” I said. “I don’t know whether they actually got the police involved. Vamps around here tend to regulate things themselves. Even though they shouldn’t,” I added quickly.  
“Where are they keeping him?” Bran asked curiously.  
“I don’t know,” I lied.  
“They must have some kind of secure facility around here,” he said thoughtfully. “Probably in the basement, right?”  
I shrugged, blasé, not meeting his eye. None of his business.

“I’m gonna make sure that young guy is okay,” Jo said decisively. “He’s an addict, they can’t just ... just detain him. Do you think the king would let me, you know, speak to him?”  
She glanced at Bran.  
“We’ve discussed it and we’ve decided we want to drop charges,” she continued. “He obviously needs help, not jail-time.”  
I looked at them both.  
 _They’re nice people,_ I thought.  


“You’re right,” I said. “And you should ask the king sooner, rather than later. He still feels obliged to you now – this might change in a day or two.”  
I slid off my bar-stool, conscious that the sweet-spot, the fifteen minutes of uninterrupted snooping was rapidly approaching.  
“Go and talk to him now,” I suggested, “before he goes to ground.”

They nodded thoughtfully and as I was leaving the bar, I saw them gather up their things and leave though the exit closest to the royal suite.  
I sat on the floor of the empty living-room, keeping an eye on the clock. I sorted through some of the papers from my _Misc Pers_ box, trying in vain to find more clues about my old life, about my relationship to the king.

A lot of it was nothing more than the banal debris of a humdrum life, all of the stuff that was swept off my desk, fridge, sideboard and dumped in a large box to be dealt at an indeterminate point in the future. I used to make a lot of lists before I'd been glamoured too, I established: lists of people to call, things to buy, emails to write.  
And King Eric? Not so much, but I found little notes in his handwriting, as well, and every time I did, my heart leapt a little in anticipation when I turned them over.  
_M: record quarter finals, please._  
More soccer. Sigh.  
_I'm in the pool._ E  
Which pool? A swimming pool? A whirlpool? An image of the vampire's wiry body flashed before me – the long legs, the long feet – and I blinked it away.

And then a sticky note in Swedish, which looked really mysterious: _boka flygbiljetter_.  
Oh. My. God. What were _flygbiljetter_?  
I excitedly Googled it, but it turned out to be a reminder to book flights to somewhere.  
I tossed it into the junk pile.

And then there were the postcards: more than a dozen of them in my handwriting, some posted from New York and Boston, two posted from New Orleans, most without a stamp, probably left on his desk. The messages were affectionate but cryptic, a secret language that we obviously understood but would mean nothing to anyone else who read the back of the card on its way to Eric. The problem was, I didn't understand it, either:  
_The duck won. Admit it._  
What did the duck win? Which duck? Why was a duck involved in a competition? Where was the duck now?  
So many questions.

I put the cards aside, not willing to throw them out. Yet.  


I picked up two photos that were stuck together with the remains of some sticky tape and gently prised them apart. One was of Eric at his investiture, a formal photo of him in a black suit with a cloak around his shoulders and a band of gold on his head. Something flashed back into my head, like an echo of a song you once heard: he'd complained about the heavy cloak, the dumb crown, but I knew by the way he carried himself in the photo that he liked it.  
I peered at it closely: the design of his crown was distinctively Scandinavian, dull gold with intricate knotwork, and I could tell by the style that it was based on 9th or 10th century metalwork.  
The tall man in the photo wore it like he had been born to wear it. And instinctively I knew he had.

The other photo was taken at the same occasion but the photographer had probably caught us after the ceremony: I had my arms wrapped around his waist and he was leaning into me, his chin resting on the top of my head, as though I were holding him up. His eyes were closed, probably just taking a breather before we were pushed on to the next official duty; I was smiling at someone out of the photo. It was a picture of breathtaking intimacy and it took me aback. I stared at it for a couple of minutes, and then slowly put it down.  
I missed being the person in that picture: she looked happy.

But I didn’t have time to wallow; I saw Carlos check his watch, get up from the chair outside my door and leave his post. I counted to ten, then slipped outside.

Creeping down the silent halls, I kept my ears open for humans or vampires approaching. I didn't know where I was going but the more I roamed, the more I remembered, the more I got my bearings. Things were coming back to me – small stuff like the names of some of the members of staff I'd had dealings with, the location of some of the places I'd had cause to visit.

On my tiptoes, I passed the kitchens – empty except for the cleaning staff – and the store rooms, avoided the staff offices and the meeting room where I knew the people from the day and night staff would be discussing the handover.  
I slipped down the stairs that I'd been down the previous day and scuttled past the storage room; if I remembered correctly, I could use the underground passageway that went under the courtyard and led to the staff staircase near the ballroom. From there I could get to Eric's office or maybe Pam's without being seen by the staff at reception. I didn't plan on breaking and entering; I had a vague idea that I might be able to talk someone into letting me in. I could pretend I'd left something behind – some important piece of paper or something.  
_The details could be worked out on the fly,_ I thought.

As I made my way along the concrete corridors, the lights flickering in that eerie way they do in horror films, I suddenly realised what was also under the courtyard: the prison.  
No, that wasn't right, not the prison – they didn't call it a prison. What was it?  
As I racked my brains for the appropriate term, I turned a corner and came face to face with a large double door, a metal door with a sign: SECURE UNIT.

Aha. The secure unit.

I pressed an ear against the door, as though I might be able to hear something, and pushed it, as though it might open. Then I caught sight the card reader at eye level and I paused, before I placed my card on the pad, my breath caught in my throat. I knew that my snooping would be registered and Pamela would give me hell, but if I was going to be somewhere I shouldn't, then it should be somewhere I really, really shouldn't.

As expected, my access was denied and I was just about to leave when the door opened and a vampire guard peeked out curiously.  
“Welcome back, Ms Kennick - ma'am!" he called.  
“Thank you," I said. "I, eh, I'm just getting back into the swing of things and assessing the current state of, eh, affairs."  
State of affairs? _Affairs_?  
But the guard didn't seem to notice my moronity.  
“So are you ... are you...?” The poor man searched for words.  
“Yes,” I answered. “I have been brought up to speed. The king has filled me in.”  
“So you know that you were ... um... ”  
“Glamoured? Yes. That has been – ”I searched for a term that might say everything but nothing, “- dealt with.”

The burly guard literally heaved a sigh of relief.  
“I am mighty glad, ma’am,” he replied. “Are you here at the king’s command?”  
“No,” I said. “Like I mentioned, I’m just trying to get the lie of the, eh, land and I heard we had a prisoner, so I just wanted to – “  
I was painfully aware I was rambling, but the security guard was all business.  
“Human or vamp?”  
“Sorry?”  
“Would you like to see the human or vamp, Ms Kennick?”  
Oho.  
“Both,” I said firmly.

He smiled at me and swiped his card on the reader. The door beeped and I was about to step inside when I heard a sharp -  
“Magdalena!”  
_Aw, fuck,_ I thought. _Busted._  
I turned around and saw Eric, with the two Canadian vampires close behind him.

“ _Du borde inte vara här,_ ” he snapped.  
I didn’t need to know Swedish to know what he meant: he had just caught me where I was not meant to be.  


I jutted out my chin stubbornly and walked casually past them, smiling at the Canadians as though I hadn’t just been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.  
“I wanted to check on the prisoners’ welfare,” I said as I drew up level with Eric.  
I emphasised the plural, raising an eyebrow to show him that I knew what he was up to.  
“Excuse me,” he said to the other two and pulled me aside.

“How does this concern you, Ms Kennick?” he said in a low hiss.  
Oh, dear. We were back to surnames.  
“You have no right to imprison either vampires or humans outside of local law authorities’ jurisdiction,” I said. ”That’s Article 17 of the New Orleans Charter, remember?”  
“You cannot remember anything of your past life, but you can remember Article 17 of the damned Charter?” he said. ” _Fascinating._ ”  
The king bit the word out: his eyes were narrowed, furious, and a vein on his forehead began to throb. A small trickle of blood wet his earlobe; dawn had broken and he did not have long before he would go to ground.  
“Apparently that stuck with me,” I whispered.

At that moment, the day staff arrived, looking startled at the sight of the commotion in the hall: their tall king glowering down at me and the two Canadian vampires being ... well, benignly and politely Canadian: smiling and wishing everyone a good morning, while discreetly wiping blood from their ears.

“We will do this tomorrow night,” Eric said, standing up straight.  
“Fine,” I replied.  
“Not you,” he shot, “ _them._ ”  
“We don’t mind,” Bran said quickly. “We’re here now, your majesty. We actually have ...”  
He looked at his wife and she smiled shyly.  
“... plans for tomorrow night.”

The king pretended to draw a deep breath and gave them a grim smile.  
“Very well,” he said with a poor attempt at magnanimity.  
He nodded at the security guard, “Please go to ground, Mr Spencer. The day staff will take it from here. This woman,” he said, draping an arm around my shoulder, “has no business down here.”  


“Hey!” I squeaked in protest, and tried to shrug his arm off, but instead he leaned down and put his face close enough to touch my hair with his nose. I pulled away, but he followed, smelling me.  
I heard the tell-tale click of his fangs and was suddenly overwhelmed by his coldness, the taste of sea-salt on my lips.  
“I will see you tomorrow night as well,” he whispered. “When you return from your _date_ with Mr Carbury.”  
He glared at me, then released me with a little push.  


The king swept past, into the secure facility, trailed by the day guards, then Jo and finally, reluctantly, Bran.  
“Are you ok?” he mouthed at me, his face a picture of worry.  
I gave him a shaky thumbs up as the heavy door fell shut behind him, leaving me all alone outside in the empty hall.  
It was time for bed it seemed.


	20. Chapter 20

I won’t lie: I got back from my appointment with Josh Carbury and practically sneaked back into the building. He had suggested going for dinner so we could go and see the king together when he rose, but I begged off, saying I wanted to have an early night and print out some of the photos we had taken before we spoke to his highness.

The architect agreed and dropped me by the main gates of the complex, whereupon I practically ran down the path through the ornate gardens, flew through the Art Deco doors and rushed up the main stairs in the hope that the day receptionists hadn’t taken note of my arrival.

Alas, they had.

I was firmly ensconced in my pyjamas, tucked up in bed with a book, when there was a sharp rap at my door.   
_Oh God,_ I thought in dread, in excitement. _He’s outside my door._  
Peering at the screen of the CCTV, I saw a young man outside my door in a uniform. He was chatting casually to Carlos. 

I opened the door a crack.  
“Yes?”  
“From the king, ma'am,” he said.

I opened it and there was the same scratchy handwriting, but this time it wasn't about dry-cleaning or football:  
 _I would appreciate it if you would join me in my rooms._  
he'd written.

“Ma'am?” said the bellboy smilingly. “I can show you the way, Ms Kennick.”  
“One moment,“ I replied and fetched a pen. Underneath Eric's note I wrote:  
 _Is this an official summons?_  
then folded it and handed it back to the young vampire in front of me.

"Please return that to the king,” I said.  
The bellhop looked momentarily confused.  
“Certainly,” he replied with the same bright smile.  
I closed the door and went back to bed.   
Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door again.  
I opened it.  
“Thank you – I'm sorry, what's your name?” I asked as he handed over the note.  
“Tom,” he answered.  
I flipped the note open. Eric had written:  
 _No, it is not. But I would appreciate it._

I pulled my pen out of my pocket and Tom sighed discreetly.  
 _Are you planning on telling me off?_  
I wrote and handed it back to him. He left again, his smile not quite so bright.

I was waiting beside the door when Tom returned.   
He handed me the note wordlessly.  
 _Why do you think I would do that?_

I paused and replied:  
 _Why else do you want to see me? I doubt it’s a date._  
“Thank you,” I said to the poor bellhop.

I didn’t bother going back to bed, just waited on the sofa, biting my lip to hold back laughter as I pictured the king’s face.   
_Was that forehead vein already throbbing?_ I wondered.

Tom handed me the king’s reply.  
 _It can be a date if you want it to be._  
I read.

_What if I don't want it to be?_  
I wrote and handed it back to Tom.   
No smiles this time.   
I shut the door and grinned. 

I wondered if Old Me, pre-glamoured me, liked to annoy Eric as much as I did. I could just imagine him grinding his teeth, not knowing whether to laugh or curse me.

The phone rang and I picked it up.  
“Magdalena,” Eric said. “ _Please._ ”

How he managed to make one word sound simultaneously imploring and vaguely threatening was beyond me, so I laughed and said, “Okay, okay, I'm on my way,” before hanging up.

x

“This is the state room,” I said accusingly when he opened the door.  
“And this is not a date, I take it,” he said, nodding at the jeans and t-shirt I had hastily put on.

“Speak for yourself,” I rejoined and indicated his attire: a grey long-sleeved t-shirt that sat tight across his torso and a pair of black jeans. His hair was tousled, as though he'd taken a shower and forgotten to comb it and he was barefoot again, his feet sinking into the deep pile of the luxurious carpet. I saw his arrow-scar and looked away. 

I glanced around, not even pretending to be discreet.  
I took in everything: Eric was neat – habitually neat, I suddenly realised in that strange way I was getting used to: a kind of instinctive remembering, like a sixth sense.

“You could get the best part of a thousand dollars a night for this suite,” I said forthrightly. “You shouldn't be in it. Your kingdom needs this money.”  
He shook his head and deftly uncorked a bottle of red wine without asking me whether I wanted any.  
“So you can't remember the fact that we nearly got married or the fact that we lived together for, oh, months on end – but you can remember the price of this suite? Glamouring is, indeed, an inexact science.”

He handed me a glass and then clinked his own against it. He was drinking blood in a red-wine glass: if you didn't look too closely, it looked like he was drinking a Merlot, too.  
“Sit,” he said and motioned to the sofa.   
I sat down in an armchair.   
He raised an eyebrow and sat opposite me. 

We sat in silence for a couple of minutes.  
“What do you remember?” he finally asked.   
I scrunched my eyes shut.  
“Everything. And nothing,” I said.  
He looked at me enquiringly and I pointed at his foot, before rubbing the bridge of my nose.

“Your sister Astrid gave you that scar. You rode her horse without her permission and she shot you in the foot when you got off. The arrow gave you an infection and you nearly died, so she stayed by your bedside for days and days till you recovered. She felt so bad you could ride her horse whenever you wanted to – you said the near-death experience was worth it.”  
Eric grinned.  
“What was the horse's name?” he asked curiously.  
“Árvakr,” I replied without thinking. “It was the name of one of the horses who pulled some god's chariot, or something.”  
“You remember that,” he said wonderingly.  
“Someone once told me that glamouring always leaves holes,” I said. “No matter how hard you try, you always forget something. Or someone.”

“I said that,” Eric replied, pleased. “Tell me something else.”  
“Like what?” I asked, sipping the wine.  
“Something you can remember about me.”  
“You want me to tell you something _you_ once told _me_?” I laughed. “That's a bit pointless, isn't it?”  
“Indulge me,” he said, leaning back on the sofa. “Perhaps we can jog your memories a bit. Once you open the floodgates, more should come back.”  
“I can't remember anything else,” I protested. “I just remembered that when I saw your scar.”

Eric leaned forward again, fixing his eyes on me and patted the sofa beside him.  
“You might need to be closer to me,” he said. “You've had my blood, you should feel a connection to me, you should be able to remember.”  
"Haha," I said drily. “Classic move. I’ll stay here, thanks.”  
Eric looked pained.   
“Do you want to start remembering or not?” he asked impatiently.

I remembered the photo, my arms wrapped around his chest, his head resting on mine, and put my glass down on the side table, slid off the chair and sat down beside him.   
Wordlessly, he held out a hand and I took it.  
“Can you remember anything about ... Pam?” he asked.  
“She smells of lilac,” I replied.  
“That’s useful,” he smiled. “Not. Anything else? What about Willa?”  
“Willa? Nope,” I shook my head. "Nothing."

He paused.   
“What about my maker?” he asked carefully.  
I had a rush of images, of quick flashes – Eric in bed, telling me about -   
“Godric!” I cried. “The boy with the blue tattoos!”

Eric’s face closed and he drew back, but I was too excited to notice.  
“You and Godric came to America together,” I said. “I can’t remember when – during the famine years, wasn’t it? You left Europe in the ....1840s? And travelled to New York. Godric had to glamour the immigration official at the port, he didn't want to let him in when he caught sight of the tattoos. He thought that Godric was in some kind of a gang and they had enough problems with that kind of thing in New York at the time anyway.”  
Eric was staring at me, my hand clasped between his two big ones.  
Something, some heat, moved from his cold skin, up through mine like a tickle, like a shock.

“And you _loved_ him,” I said, unexpectedly fervently.  
His smiled faded and he let go of my hand.  
“That is correct,” he said formally. 

He looked away and put down his glass, his face suddenly, inexorably, sad.   
Whatever had travelled from his hand through mine came through me again as a surge of sorrow and I felt my eyes fill with tears. Before I could stop myself, I reached out and touched Eric’s cold cheek with the back of my fingers, a tiny caress. 

He froze beneath my touch and his eyes darted to look at me, his body still completely motionless.   
I slowly lowered my hand.  
“I'm sorry.” It was a whisper. “That was probably inappropriate,” I added. “Sorry again. Your majesty. Sir.”

He leaned forward and pushed me down, kissing my face, my mouth, my nose, my cheeks. It wasn't very elegant, he was basically kissing anything he could access while I struggled to grab hold of the back of the sofa to prevent myself from falling off.

“Magdalena,” he whispered and his lips found mine.   
He kissed me, prising my lips open with his tongue, his fingers wrapped in my hair.  
" _Ehih,_ " I mumbled. " _Ehih!_ "  
His eyes were closed, a look of concentration, of devotion on his face; I knew that look and it made my stomach flip.  
I brought a hand to his face and cupped his cheek, his cold skin, the hard stubble.  
" _Ehih!_ " I said, trying to get rid of his probing tongue. I managed to turn my face away but he continued kissing my cheek instead. "Eric!"

He pulled back, a dazed expression on his face.  
“I'm going to slide off the sofa and your big bony knee is bashing my leg,” I complained, trying to disguise any other feelings I had. “Get off me, you oaf.”

He rolled over and I struggled to my feet, pulling down my t-shirt which had ridden up around my chest, exposing one cup of my washed-out bra. (I know: but I hadn’t gone to see the king thinking he was going to, well, see it.)  
Eric sat upright on the sofa, his hair sticking up at all angles and a wide grin slowly spread across his face.  
“So what do you remember now?” he asked, a little smug.

Lots. I remembered _lots_.   
I remembered a mole on the back of his leg. I remembered the blond hair on his chest. I remembered the look on his face when he came.   
I blushed furiously and he nodded happily. 

“Good,” he said. “We need to do this more often.”  
“I don’t think so,” I said quickly.  
He stood up and in one step gathered me into his arms, wrapping his arms around my waist with his chin resting on my head, just like it had in the photo.   
This was something we had done a thousand times, I thought as he pulled me close enough to press his hardness against my stomach.

“Isn’t this inevitable?” he murmured. “We share a blood-bond.”  
And we did: this close to him, I could feel his phantom pulse, the thump of an unbeating heart, as though my warm blood were running through him and the ice of his was shooting through my veins.  
“Don’t you feel it, _min älsking_?” he wanted to know. 

I did, I did, I did: the smell of spice, of apples, of sea salt, the feeling of his arousal mixed with my own.   
With more violence than necessary, I pushed him away.  
“I really need to be going,” I said. “This is very inappropriate. This is not professional.”  
“This is inevitable,” he repeated.  
“Then I should probably consider handing in my notice,” I said stiffly and I felt overcome with another wave of sadness – his or mine? Damn it. So hard to tell.  
“Please don’t.” His voice was serious. “Don’t let this get in the way of the project. You need to keep going.”

I stared at my toes, trying to make a decision.  
“Stay,” Eric said. “Because I intend to woo you.”  
That made me chuckle and when I looked up to see whether he was joking, he looked slightly bemused.   
“Why does everyone laugh when I say that?” he wondered. 

He tossed the sofa cushions on the floor and lay down, patting the sofa beside him and I had a sudden flash of a memory from a long time ago: a different couch, that same patting motion.  
“No touching,” he said. “Just come and be close. See what else you remember.”  
I hesitated.  
“Come on,” he said and I felt something draw me in, as though he had a fishline hooked to my subconscious. 

I slid on to the couch beside him so my face was level with his, my feet brushing against his calves.  
“Do you want to kiss?” Eric asked, the sound of the Swedish inflexion suddenly clear as he posed the question. “You do,” he said, smiling when I couldn’t deny it fast enough.  
I really, really did but I couldn't say anything; I felt like I was struck dumb. 

He leaned over and kissed the tip of my nose.  
“We talk. Maybe we kiss. You remember, I'll help you”  
“But you won't tell me everything,” I said, staring at him. “I think you lie to me sometimes.”  
He shrugged non-committally.  
“Why don't we kiss first and discuss that later?” he asked.  
“I won't have sex with you, or drink your blood, or let you drink mine,” I said, counting them off on my fingers.  
“Aww,” he said and grinned at me again.  
“I'm serious,” I said. “Just a bit of harmless kissing. For medicinal purposes, more or less.”  
“Second base?” he ventured.  
“Meh,” I said. “We'll see how we go. I’m more interested in the talking.”  
He winked at me.  
“I'm serious,” I warned as he drew me in.  
“I know,” he said. “But I told you: I'm going to woo you with my charm.”

I laughed so hard, I rolled off the couch.


	21. Chapter 21

Eric recognised the knock on the door. 

He opened it wide enough to not appear suspicious, but not wide enough to appear inviting.   
As he had expected, Pam was standing outside, her Gucci overnight bag in one hand. She was wearing tightly-fitted black leather jacket and, unusually, flat shoes: she was obviously about to leave.

"The super at my place in Shreveport just called. The apartment over mine had a leak, he thinks I need to come back and check it out, just in case I need to contact my insurance. So I'll be in our favourite little shithole for a couple of days and I can swing by Fangtasia while I'm there – why do you look so weird?"  
"Weird?"  
"Yes, all kind of – " She twirled a red fingernail in his face. "- all kind of this."  
"This?"  
She leaned in and smelled him, then pushed him roughly aside.  
"No!" she cried. "No, no, no, no, _no_!"  
The two guards looked discreetly away, shuffling in embarrassment. Eric quietly closed the door and watched her march around the suite, barely able to suppress a smile.

Pam came marching out of the bedroom and spied the sofa, cushions askew and scattered on the floor.  
"This place reeks of the Kennick!" she shrieked. 

With a dancer's grace, she dipped and picked up a cushion and flung it at Eric's head, hitting its mark squarely. "You moron!"  
He shrugged, still smiling.  
"Take that smug fucking smirk off your face, Eric," she cried. "Did you two fuck? _Did you_?"  
Her blue eyes glittered with rage beneath her long black eyelashes and her nails were clenched into her hips as she stood squarely before him.  
"No," he said. "We didn't. We just kissed."  
"Kissed?" Pam spat.  
"I told you I wanted to woo her," he said stubbornly.

Pamela covered her eyes with her hands.  
"I literally – _literally_ – just vomited in my mouth," she declared.  
Eric laughed and started picking up cushions and pillows, straightening the cashmere throw that usually lay folded across the back of his sofa.  
"So you two are, what? Back together again? All lovey-dovey?" she sneered.  
"No," Eric said patiently. "I want to win her over. I want her to come back to me of her own accord, completely and fully."  
Pamela made vomiting noises.  
"And then," he continued, his voice low and brutal, "I want to catch the vampire Corbyn and sue Texas till his balls bleed. Simple."  
He punched a cushion lightly to fluff it up and threw it on the sofa.

Pamela stared at him.  
"So you ... you what? You invite her over for a bit of fooling around, pretend to take things slow? Did you give her your blood? No? She refused, right? And she wouldn't let you have hers. I bet you didn't demur: _oh, of course, min älsking. Whatever you like, min älsking_. How deliciously chaste of you, Eric."

She slow-clapped him and picked up the bloody glass from his desk, holding it aloft like a trophy.  
"And as soon as she had walked out that door, you went to the freezer and warmed yourself a nice big ol' glass of her blood. I bet our brainwashed little dimwit also doesn't remember the fact that she donated a few gallons of it way back when you two were lovers. You are a piece of work, Eric."

Eric shook his head.  
"I told you I would get her back," he said. "This is what I have to do so I'm doing it."  
Pamela shook her head.  
"Or – here's another option – or you just send her back to Ireland and get on with your fucking life."  
"No," he said stubbornly. "She belongs here."

She huffed silently.  
"Your _relationship_ ," she said, viciously air-quoting relationship with her crimson nails, "was fundamentally flawed. Remember? Remember the whole: _I-want-you-to-be-my-wife_ thing? And the _no-I-don't-want-to-be-married-to-a-vampire_ thing? I don't want to go all fucking Dr Phil on you, but..."  
"Maybe she's changed her mind," Eric said. He picked up a couple of files from his desk.  
"She's been glamoured," Pamela said, "not _lobotomised_."  
"Pamela, my darling," he said. "I have a meeting to go to and you'd better get moving if you intend to be in Shreveport before dawn."

He held the door open for her and she sailed past him.  
"Fundamentally flawed!" she called as she walked off.

**x x x Two years previously x x x**

"Maggie!"  
He could hear her moving around outside the bedroom.  
"Maggie!" he called again and pushed the blanket off, stretching himself, divesting quickly his shorts, his t-shirt.  
No answer.  
"Magdalena!" he barked.  
She opened the door, her wet hair in a towel.  
"Yes, my lord and master?" she asked sardonically.

He indicated his naked body.  
"Come," he said.  
Maggie rolled her eyes.  
"I'm late, Eric," she said. "We're hosting the Governor of Massachusetts tomorrow, I have a thousand things to do tonight."  
"None of which are more important than me."  
" _All_ of which are more important than you." 

He sat up in bed.  
"Your first duty is to me," he said. "You're mine, my human. If I need you, you come."  
She snorted.   
"Seriously, Eric, your lines come straight from a cheap paperback romance. Who did that kind of shit ever work on?"  
"I can persuade you," he said, trying another tack. "Give me five minutes."

She hissed, a sharp intake of air through her teeth.  
"No," she said. "Learn to take no for an answer."  
"If you continue to refuse to have sex with me," he continued insouciantly, "I'll find someone who will."  
He leaned over and pulled his t-shirt back on.  
Maggie pretended to reel.

"I'm sorry – what?" she cried. "As in: what the _fuck_? _Refuse_ to have sex?"  
"This is the third night in a row," he pointed out.  
"BECAUSE I'M BUSY!" she shouted. "I'm fucking stressed out, Eric! Visits from out-of-state governors that get covered by every fucking news network in the country don't just organise themselves, you know."  
"Your first duty is to me," he repeated stubbornly.  
"Well, I'd have more time to do my duty, if you didn't leave all this crap to me."  
"Are you saying I don't pull my weight?" he said. "I sit on that damn throne every night. Does that look like fun to you?"  
"You could delegate a lot of that to Pam," she argued. "All of those petty little squabbles – let Pam handle them."  
"You could delegate, too," he countered. "Why doesn't Montgomery take over some of your tasks?"  
"Because sometimes one of us needs to be there," she said icily. "You or me, one of us has to be present because the buck stops with us." She laughed drily. "What am I saying? With _you_. The buck stops with you," she corrected.   
Magdalena shook her head.  
"You're right," she said. "I don't even know why I'm doing this. I'm just your consort. Do it your fucking self."  
"I will," he countered.

She tossed her wet towel on the bedroom floor, something she knew he hated.  
"You're just my consort because that's all you want to be," Eric said. He stood up and padded over to her, light on his feet. "I've asked you often enough to be my wife."  
She shook her head in disbelief.  
"Like that would change something," she said bitterly.  
"It would change everything."  
He tried to gather her in his arms, but she wriggled away angrily.

"Has it never occurred to you that I mightn't want to grow old by your side?" she said. "To feel my body age and sag while you stay the same, stay like this? To have to allow you to be with other women, to have you mind me when I'm elderly and infirm? To have you bury me? To put my wedding ring in your collection so that some day you can say, Oh yes, that was the redhead. The Irishwoman. The carrier. I was fond of her."

She was crying now, covering her face with her hands.   
Startled, Eric wrapped his arms around her and she didn't push him away.  
"Leave it," she said, but he squeezed her tighter.  
"What collection of rings?" he asked softly into the top of her head.  
"I found them when Texas abducted you. Pam and I went through your desk to find your address book and I found the hidden compartment. Fourteen rings, fourteen wives. I don't want to be number fifteen, Eric." She looked up, her eyes red and swollen.   
"It is ... it is so unbearably sad. I really don't think I can do it."

Eric pressed her close, resting his chin on the top of her head, her red hair darker now that it was wet.  
"Some of those women were chosen for me," he said. "Some I chose for expediency, for their wealth or for their standing. I choose you because I like you, Magdalena."  
She snorted into his t-shirt. "Bowl me over with romance, why don't you?"  
"I love you, then," he said. "And I hope you will consider a ceremony of symbiosis. Perhaps of marriage – here or in Dublin, whatever you wish."

She was silent, still, as if she was thinking it over, then pushed him gently away.

"Please put on some pants," she said with a watery smile. "It's hard to have a conversation with you with that thing ... waving at me."  
Eric laughed and she picked up her towel and folded it up, a peace offering, before she leaned in to stroke his cheek and kiss him.  
"Meet you here at five a.m.?" she said shyly. "We should have a little time before dawn?"  
He returned the kiss and she left.

It was only when he was buttoning up his shirt that he realised that she hadn't said she loved him in return.


	22. Chapter 22

Oh, God, I felt sickened. Like waking up to a hangover, wondering not only what you had done but why, oh, why had you even done it in the first place? 

I kissed Eric Northman.  
The _king_.  
Even as I still felt the tingly touch of his fingers on my skin, I felt disgusted with myself: the previous night he'd been threatening me in Swedish (I think) and now I'd succumbed to his dubious charm and clumsy attempts at ... what did he call it?... _wooing_ me. 

_Oh, God,_ I prayed, _please, please don't let Pamela de Beaufort find out._  
I could only imagine the savage mockery I would be subjected to and even the thought of it made me cringe. I gathered up my things and started to prepare for work, hoping that I wouldn't have to field questions from Willa, who had turned out to be an incredibly nosy workmate.

And then, because the Almighty has a very dark sense of humour, I saw Pamela on the little CCTV monitor, saw her march up to my door and wait outside for a minute, gathering her thoughts. She did not speak to Carlos, who discreetly stepped away, as though afraid of her. 

I stepped over to the door and waited. Even if I hadn't seen her on the little screen of the security camera, I would have known she was there: as soon as I had met her again, I'd caught her scent, a faint lilac-y smell and that dusty sweetness of face powder. It was as familiar to me as Eric's and, based on my diary, it wasn't hard to understand why: Pam and I had apparently spent a lot of time together. We seemed to have done all kinds of things and many of diary entries were annotated with enough exclamation marks to make me realise that I had probably looked forward to them: getting a manicure with Pam. Going to the movies with Pam. Going to some kind of trade fair in Atlanta with Pam.

Based on the fact that her attitude towards me since I had arrived was nothing more than pained tolerance, I found it hard to believe that we had ever been gal pals, so I flung open the door and had the small satisfaction of making her jump.  
"Knock, knock," she said unnecessarily.  
"Do come in," I replied and she sailed past me, a bag hooked over her arm.

"Can I help you?" I asked when she continued to say nothing, just looking around.  
"Well," she drawled. "I'm in a bit of a bind, Maggie. See, Eric had asked me to take you with me to Shreveport for the night."  
"Shreve - ?"  
"Shreveport. Shreveport? You don't even remember Shreveport?"  
"I think I might have stopped there with Stephen and Ilaria...?" I ventured.  
I had a vague memory of a rainy night, a tequila sunrise.  
"That's where you and Eric met," she said. "Fell in love."  
Her voice sounded choked, like she was trying not to snort.  
Or vomit.  
"Oh, okay," I lied. "Right. Shreveport."  
"Anyway, our liege lord thought it might be useful, to – you know – help your recollection. A trip down memory lane, so to say."

I was a bit confused.  
I had just left our liege lord in a state of grabby excitement, extricating myself from his long fingers before I did something I would regret, whispering promises that I would be back the very next night when the meetings were over.

"Of course," Pamela said airily, "that was before _this_ happened. So now I'm not sure what I ought to do."  
She looked me up and down and smiled benevolently.  
I felt myself blush. It felt like the time my mother caught me snogging David Smith behind my father's garden shed.

"It sounds like a good idea. Um, it's just that I ...eh...I have to work tomorrow night," I said weakly. "I want to hear the town planner's proposals for waste management."  
"Of _course_ you do," she said in a tone that implied that I most certainly did not. "Of course, darling Maggie. I'm sure you won't want to be away for an instant now that you're back at Eric's – "  
She stopped and bit her lip dramatically.

"Anyway," she finished quickly, "I'd better leave. I have to get to the airport and I - "  
"Back at Eric's _what_?" I cut in.  
"Never mind. Really, I shouldn't have said anything," she said, her face wide-eyed and sporting a little _moue_ of regret.  
"No, finish it," I said hotly.

"Well," she said, lowering her voice as though sharing a confidence, "at Eric's _beck and call_. Again. I mean, he obviously summoned you and you went. Not that I blame you," she added, patting my hand with her icy fingertips. "He's an attractive man, a great lay. It's rare that he summons a woman and she doesn't come, if you know what I mean."  
She gave me a knowing wink and I tried to laugh casually.  
"It wasn't like that," I said, brushing it off.  
"It wasn't?" Pam enquired politely. "Oh, I'm sorry, Maggie. Naturally it would be different with _you_. It's just his usual _modus operandi_ , you know. He clicks his fingers and whatever little twit he wants comes running."  
She smiled at me and patted my arm like I was getting some kind of consolation prize.  
I bristled.

Pamela gave another one of her bright white smiles, then leaned in and airkissed my cheeks, a swooshing of Pam-scent, soft skin and the slight scrape of sharp diamond earrings against my face, like a tiny warning that I had come too close.  
"I'll be back the night after next," she said, putting her hand on the doorknob. "We _must_ catch up then. _So_ much to talk about. _Can't_ wait."  
"So it's just one night?" I asked, stepping closer.  
She paused at the door. 

"Yes," she said. "I have one or two things to tend to. I'm sorry for putting you on the spot, Maggie - I just thought you might like to catch up on old friends."  
"I have friends in Shreveport?"  
"You sure do," she said warmly. "They've been _so_ worried about you. But they'll understand. They know what Eric's like with his - "  
She made a show of pressing her lips together as though she'd said too much. Although I knew she was winding me up, she'd still managed to hit a raw nerve.

"Give me five minutes," I said. "I'll grab a few things, make a couple of calls and tell Willa what I need her to do."  
"Are you sure?" she asked, an expression of concern on her face. "Whatever will Eric say?"  
"He's the one who suggested it," I reminded her archly. "He can survive without me for one night."  
"Well, if you say so," she conceded graciously and examined her nails while I jammed the phone under my chin and threw a fresh shirt, a change of underwear and rudimentary toiletries in to my overnight bag.  
I wondered if I should phone Eric and tell him, but that would make it seem like I was asking for permission.  
Which I wasn't, was I?  
Hell, no.

Pamela linked her arm through me and squeezed it as we walked off down the corridor, telling me about some bar she wanted to visit when we got to Shreveport. I gave the sentries a casual wave as we got into Pam's car – see, not dancing attendance on the king, me. Not another one of his random women, me – something I continued to think and over-think as we sped towards the airport at breakneck speed.

It was only when we were stopped at a traffic light that I glanced up at Pam to find her smiling at me with something odd in her expression.  
What was it? I wondered as the lights changed and she sped off, throwing me back in my seat.  
Pride. It was pride.  
She'd looked at me as though she were vaguely proud of me, like a little dog that had learned a new trick. 

It took me all of thirty seconds more to realise that while I didn't know Pam very well any more, she knew me like the back of her hand.  
I'd been played and she had won.


	23. Chapter 23

When Pamela told me we would be flying to Shreveport by private plane, I had visions of us being whooshed through the skies in luxury, being plied with champagne and handed hot towels to freshen up.  
Nope.  
It was a tiny little propeller plane that had space for the pilot, two rows of seats and that was it: the rest of the plane's seats had been removed to make space for coffins. In this case, I presumed it was Pam's lacquered black coffin with a discreet gold trim behind us.

I looked around; the plane looked pretty flimsy to my eyes. I shifted nervously in my seat.  
"You'll be fine," she said from behind a magazine.  
"I'm not a great flyer," I replied mournfully.  
The plane was cleared for take-off – not much happening at the airport in the middle of the night – and it rattled down the runway. I would've loved to reach out and squeeze Pam's hand for comfort but she was hidden behind The Great Wall of Vogue.

When we were in the air, she deigned to lower the magazine, making a big deal of folding the corner of the page she was on. She smiled at me in her cool way.  
"I know you think we're going to have little girlie chats about you and Eric and your precious love story," she said. "But you can forget it. He has forbidden me to discuss his relationship – past or present – with you. If you have questions, ask him or un-fucking-glamour yourself."  
"Okay."  
"That is, if you two can detach your lips long enough. You disgust me."  
She looked me up and down and I squirmed.  
"Would it help if I said I disgust myself?" I ventured. "I really didn't mean to end up doing ... well, that. It was kind of weird; it just sort of happened."  
She snorted. "Kinda ... sorta," she said in a mock-whiny voice. "Tsk. You two have imbibed pints of each other's blood. It's a wonder you were able to keep your hands off each other at all. But, seriously, not talking about it."  
"Fine," I said. "Can I ask about you and me, then?"  
"There is no you and me."  
"Well, not now – "  
"Not now and not ever."  
"There was once," I said argumentatively. "We did lots of stuff together. We went to New York and saw _Hamilton_ last March. We must've been good friends because I bloody hate musicals."  
She glared at me and put her magazine aside.

"Very well, Ms Kennick. We used to be... _friends_."  
She said the word like it was entirely distasteful.  
"Did we have a falling-out?" I asked. "It's just that ... you don't seem very well-disposed towards me."  
"Well-disposed?" she sneered. "That's an understatement."  
"So we had a fight?"  
"No, we did not have a fight."  
"Was it because of Eric?"

She stared at me and started to pick up her magazine again.  
"Wait," I said hurriedly. "You don't have to say anything. Just nod. That's not disobeying him, is it?"  
She looked at me coolly, then inclined her head a fraction.  
"Okay." I could do this. I used to be really good at Twenty Questions. "It was because of Eric. Because ... of something I did to Eric?"  
She hesitated, nodded.  
"Because I broke up with him?"  
She stared at me like I was an imbecile, then nodded.  
"Things didn't work out between us and I broke up with him, broke off ... our engagement?"  
She rolled her eyes.   
"Really?" she said, clicking her fingers in my direction. "You really remember sweet fucking nothing?"

I threw my hands up in the air helplessly.  
Like _d'uh_.  
"You didn't break off your engagement," she said in a pointed way.  
"But we were supposed to get married, right?"  
She nodded, this time a vicious jab with her chin.  
"So we ... were supposed to get married and I left him, but I didn't break off the engagement? That makes no sense. Oh – wait now – "

Another option dawned on me and I winced.  
"I didn't ... leave him at the altar or something, did I?"  
Pamela slow-clapped me sardonically, her mouth twisted in a grim little smile.   
"Good girl, Maggie," she said.  
I felt a little stunned.  
"Well, that's kind of shitty," I spluttered. "Did I really?"  
"Oh yes," she replied. "All kinds of dignitaries were coming to see you two fools plight your troth and you did a runner."

My stomach churned and flipped.  
"That ... it's just that ... that doesn't really sound like me," I said weakly. "I can't imagine doing that to anyone. Not someone I love, in any case."  
"Someone you love. Quite."  
Pam was pithy, flicking through her magazine again.  
"Seriously, though – is that what happened? Did I really do that?"  
"What amazes me," Pam said, tossing the Vogue aside and slipping off her seatbelt, "is that despite the fact that your memory has been wiped, you seem absurdly certain of your moral compass. Yes, you did it. You dumped him right before the ceremony. Any further questions? Ask the man you jilted."

She stood up, hunched over in the little plane, and pressed a button to open the coffin. The lid lifted with a gentle swoosh of air.  
"We'll be landing in the next few minutes," she said, climbing in.   
She did so elegantly, as though she were stepping into the bathtub.  
"The guys from Anubis will see to it that we're taken to my apartment. You may sleep in the guest room; there are fresh towels in the laundry closet. Don't snoop around, I _will_ know if you've been through my stuff and I _will_ make you suffer for it."  
"Of course not," I said indignantly. "I wouldn't do that."

Or would I?   
Apparently there was another version of me that lured men into marriage and then left them at the altar, so maybe that me also went through people's personal stuff while they were incapacitated.

"By the way," she drawled, pulling her phone out of her pocket. "Why don't you pop out and visit your old friend Sookie Stackhouse tomorrow? My car is in the underground garage. Don't scratch it."  
My phone pinged and I saw she'd sent me a telephone number.  
"Sookie - ?"  
"Stackhouse," she repeated, as I typed it into my phone.  
"Was she a friend of mine? Like, a real friend?" I asked.  
Pamela pulled a face of shock.  
"You two were _really_ close," she said emphatically. "I mean, if you have any questions about your time here in Louisiana - any questions at all - she's the one to ask."  
I narrowed my eyes and stared at her while the pilot shouted over his shoulder that we were approaching Shreveport airport.  
"I have a feeling this is some kind of trick," I said suspiciously. "Is it, Pam?"  
"Maggie, Maggie, Maggie," she said in return, shaking her head, ever so disappointed with me.  
Which didn't actually answer my question.  
She shot me another one of her brittle smiles, then lay back and pressed a button that lowered the lid.

I sat through a bumpy landing by myself, the sky pinkening in the east as we landed in Shreveport.   
The men from Anubis loaded Pam's coffin onto a gurney and steered it over to the terminal building. I scampered behind, carrying her overnight bag and my own.


	24. Chapter 24

I woke to a poke.   
A poking _foot_ , to be precise; when I opened my eyes, I saw scarlet toenails shoving my shoulder roughly.   
I looked up and saw Pam beside the bed, wearing a bathrobe with her hair in a towel turban. Her legs were long, her toes tapering to neatly lacquered points.  
"What are you doing here?" she asked.

I was confused.  
"You told me I could sleep in your guest-room," I replied. "Am I in the wrong room? Is this _your_ room?"  
It hardly was, was it? This room was nicely – if primly – decorated. The other bedroom looked like a bedroom from the palace at Versailles. One that had been steampunked, that is.

"I know that," she said impatiently. "But didn't I tell you to look up Sookie Stackhouse?"  
"Oh, yeah – the number doesn't work," I said, reaching for my phone.  
I'd called mid-afternoon but a robotic voice had told me the number was no longer in service. I took it as a sign and crawled back under the covers for some more sleep.

Pam pulled her phone from the pocket of her robe and pressed the screen. I heard the beeps and then the faint, tinny voice telling her that the number was no longer available.  
"That bitch changed her number," she said. "Now ain't that a kick in the pants?"  
My phone beeped again. This time was a message from Eric and I couldn't help but smile when his name flashed onscreen.  
 _Are you up?_ it read. _I want you._  
Oh, God. Vampire booty call. I was torn between being indignant and slightly thrilled.

"Is that Eric?" she asked as I started to type a reply.   
I nodded and suddenly she whacked the phone out of my hands.  
"Don't be such a doormat!" she cried.   
The phone lay face down on the rug beside the bed.  
 _"Pam!"_  
"Beck and call, Maggie! Beck and call! Promise me you won't answer that till after midnight at least."

I felt like whining: But I want to... Instead I summoned the shreds of my self-respect and nodded.  
"Say it!" she demanded.  
"I won't write back till after midnight," I said sulkily. "I'll play passive-aggressive mind-games just for you."  
"Damn right you will," she growled.

She picked up my phone and put it in the pocket of her robe with my own.  
"I'm confiscating this, just in case," she said. "I'll have to keep you busy. You can tag along with me and when I get my stuff done, we can just pop on out to Sookie Stackhouse together. I'm sure she will be deeee-light-ed to see you again."  
"Sookie Stackhouse hates me, doesn't she?" I said unhappily. "I know there's a reason why you're insisting that I contact her. Did I do something to her, too? Was she supposed to be my bridesmaid or something?"  
Pamela let out a peal of laughter.  
"Maggie!" she cried in fake incredulity. "How can you be so mistrustful? Now get up and get dressed," she added and started to raise her foot.

I rolled out the other side of the bed as fast as I could before her scarlet claws touched me again.

x x x

"And this is Fangtasia," she said, marching past the waiting line of punters. 

It was a mild night and the queue was long; many were wearing dog collars and leathers. The girls were dressed up to the nines. In my jeans and t-shirt, I felt underdressed.  
Pam seemed to read my mind.  
"I _told_ you so," she said.  
At least twice she'd asked me if this was what I was going to wear and twice I'd told her that I had literally left in the clothes I'd been wearing. I hadn't realised that a trip to a vampire bondage nightclub was on the cards.

She nodded briskly at the bouncer and pushed the padded door, pulling me behind her.  
"Don't talk to any vamps," she said. "They're all hillbillies or tourists. As far as they're concerned, you're Eric's, so keep your distance."  
She paused in her march through the bar to look at me, then leaned into sniff me.  
"A pity you showered," she said. "They might've smelled him on you, which would make the whole thing easier."  
She pulled my t-shirt down an inch or two and I yelped in indignation.  
"You used to wear his fang," she said. "Where did that go to?"  
"I don't know," I snapped crossly and pushed her hand away. "Get lost, Pam."

She smiled and pulled me in, past vampires who turned from their partners to lean towards me, to breathe my smell deeply. I thought unhappily about what I'd last had to eat – very little. But coffee, lots of coffee. I probably smelled like a latte macchiato. I saw one vampire's tongue flick out, like a snake's. He was licking his lips.

A small blond woman popped up in front of me like a Jack-in-the-Box.  
"Maggieeeeeee! Maggieeeeeeee!" she squealed and threw herself on me. I allowed myself be hugged and cautiously hugged her back. I could feel her bones through her tiny top, small and frail like a bird. She was wearing perfume – a lot of it – and a lot of stuff in her hair, which had been teased into a blond cloud, like candy floss.

"You've lost weight!" she cried. "But you look good! What're you doing here? Are you back with Eric? I thought you two broke up - and you was supposed to get married. Ev'rybody says you dumped him, did you dump him? Serves him right. Poor Eric. That was kinda bitchy of you, though."  
Watching her talk was fascinating. Her face changed as rapidly as her thoughts, her eyes lighting up at the thoughts of Eric's misery, dropping in sympathy, then narrowing in disgust at me.  
"You tell her, Ginger," Pamela said drily. "Give it to her."  
Ginger smacked my arm. It hurt.  
"You shouldenta done that," she said. "That was mean."  
"I know," I said, affronted. "I'm sorry."  
"Don't say it to me!" she said fiercely. "Say it to _him!_ "  
"I did," I insisted. "I will. I'm sorry."  
I looked to Pam for help and she took pity on me.

"Okay, that's enough, now. Go easy on her, Ginger, she's been glamoured."  
"No!" Ginger shrieked. "My word! You bin glamoured? You poor thing! Does Eric _know_?" she added whirling around to face me.  
I glanced at Pam, who hid a smile behind her fingers.  
"I think ... he might have noticed," I said gently.  
"Well, I ain't never bin glamoured myself," she said confidently, "But I imagine it's just awful."  
Pamela was no longer making any attempt to hide her laughter.  
"She'll get over it, Ginger darling," she said. "Now take her off and liquor her up a little, but make sure the rest of these blood-thirsty fuckers know who she belongs to. I have work to do, children. Stay out of my hair for a while."  
And she tossed the afore-mentioned hair, before spinning on a stiletto heel and walking off towards a door marked 'Private.'

"Whatcha doin' back here?" the waitress asked conversationally as she took money from a young-looking vampire who stared at me for a couple of minutes, fangs extended, till she snapped her dishcloth at him and told him to shoo.  
"We're going to visit Sookie - "  
"- Stackhouse? Oh, my, that's nice. She's such a nice lady."  
"Do you know her?" I asked and then said quickly, "Do I know her?"  
"Sure you do," Ginger said warmly. "You two were good friends!"  
"Really?" I asked... and wondered why I had had to forget her if we had been so close.

Ginger scrunched her eyes up, trying to remember.  
"You two were real good friends when you lived here," she said. "Back when you were ... "  
She paused, her pointy little faced screwed up in concentration, while I waited with bated breath to find out more about my past encounters with this telepath.   
"Darn it," she said crossly. "It has just gone and slipped my mind."  
She smiled at me, showing her white little teeth.   
"Don't know what's got into me recently," she said brightly. "I'm gettin' forgetful; must be old age!"

 _Poor Ginger,_ I thought, drinking from the beer bottle she'd handed me. _If there was anything worse than being glamoured, then it had to be not realising that it had been done._

x x x

"Can you tell me something about this Sookie Stackhouse?" I asked Pam.  
She didn't take her eyes off the road. Nor did she answer.  
"Something," I wheedled. "I know you're frogmarching me into some kind of trap, so don't you think you could give me some kind of warning? A hint?"  
"It's hardly a trap – oh, fine," she said, passing a car that was trundling along comfortably on the road at a snail's pace. "She's a telepath."  
She was!  
"I know that!" I said, shocked. "How come I don't remember Sookie Stackhouse but I do remember that she's a telepath? That's so weird."  
"Because glamouring leaves holes," Pam said, glancing sideways at me. "You told your glamourer that you wanted to forget Sookie Stackhouse, but you forgot to mention some salient details. So you don't remember her, but it doesn't surprise you that she's a telepath. Or that she's part fae?"  
I nodded. "That's right," I said, like I was remembering a rumour I'd once heard. "She's part fae."  
But something else stuck out:  
"Why do you think _I_ had myself glamoured?" I asked Pam.

Her perfectly-formed eyebrows shot upwards in mock-surprise.  
"Don't you think so?" she replied. "Eric and I are pretty sure you're behind it. You seem to have created a pretty comprehensive list of stuff to forget."  
"I guess," I conceded.   
_I seemed to have hit new heights in self-sabotage,_ I thought unhappily.  
"The only problem is," Pam continued, turning off the main road, "that you can't forget so much stuff in the one go. You've forgotten me, but I bet you know a lot more about me than you realise."

I stared out the window at the dark houses we were whizzing past. I tried to remember. What might she have told me? About her maker? About her past? About her family?   
Suddenly I realised that while I couldn't remember Pam, I knewher story like the plot of a book I had read years before - the details vague, but familiar.

"Your mother was Estonian," I said suddenly. "She came to America with your father, who got a job out west on the railroad and pretty much abandoned you two when you were small."  
Pamela was silent, staring straight ahead. Undaunted, I continued.  
"And you said she had blond hair that she wore in braids. During the day they were wrapped around her head like a crown, but at night, when she unpinned them, they fell to her waist. When she brushed her hair out, it was like a sheet of gold. She washed her hair once a week, on a Sunday, and it was your job to comb it out. You had a comb of whalebone that your Estonian grandfather made."

Pamela gave no sign that she was listening, but I knew by her vampire stillness that I had her entire attention.  
"And she taught you how to knit. You used to make extra money knitting silk stockings in summer and wool stockings in winter, you often had blisters on your fingers because you had to knit in the cold evenings by candlelight. There was a lilac bush outside the house you lived in and when they bloomed in early summer, your mother would cut them and stick them in jam jars and milk bottles all around the place. And you smell of lilacs, Pam, because your mother loved them. They're still in your blood."

I sat back in my seat and stared at her, waiting for a reaction.  
"Wonderful," she said bitterly. "Just fucking wonderful."  
She used the back of her hand to wipe her cheek and even in the darkness of the car, I could see it was smeared with blood. I wanted to reach out and touch her hand, to show I was sorry for upsetting her, but something in the set of her face told me that the last thing she wanted was for me to see her cry.

I pretended to look out the window to give her some semblance of privacy.   
She didn't say another word to me until we pulled up outside a yellow house in a dark clearing, lit up only by a porch light.  
"We're here," she said curtly and got out.


	25. Chapter 25

"Husband of Sookie," Pamela said crisply by way of greeting.  
I realised she had no idea what the name of the man at the door was and, by her tone, didn't think it important enough to learn.

"Progeny of Tall Vampire," he answered jovially in the same vein, then saw me behind her. "Hey, Irish!" he called and stepped outside on the porch to pump my hand energetically. "Long time, no see? How're you doing?"  
"Very well, thank you," I answered cheerfully, painfully aware that I didn't know his name either and his enthusiastic familiarity had made the opportunity to ask disappear.

"We're here to see Sookie," Pamela said, looking over his shoulder in case she was hiding behind the door. "Is she here?"  
"I'm real sorry," he answered. "She's at Portia Bellefleur's pre-bachelorette party."  
"Portia. Bellefleur's. Pre-Bachelorette. Party," said the vampire, enunciating each word as though she could not understand the sum of them.

Sookie's husband looked at me, a little overwhelmed.  
"See, Portia's marrying some hotshot lawyer from Jackson and she's doing this whole wedding thing. There was some trip to Shreveport with a bunch of girls to buy a dress – 'Say Yes to the Dress', is that a thing? All I know is they came back a lot drunker than I've ever been when I went clothes shopping."  
"So where is she now?" Pam asked impatiently and Sookie's husband checked his watch.  
"She should be home any minute," he said. "If you want to wait? Portia's having some kind of ... "  
He looked at me beseechingly, as though I could help him. "... some kind of gin-tasting?" he finished weakly. "Seriously, I don't know. I thought people just went and got married, I didn't know you had to have, like, a series of events beforehand. Look!"

We turned and looked at where he was pointing.  
The headlights of a car flashed and flickered against the dark trees and a pick-up truck came into view.  
"Oh-oh," the husband said and he made his way down the steps of the veranda. 

The truck pulled up on the gravel.  
"Hey Jason," he said and the blond man behind the wheel replied with a wave, then stuck his head out of the window when he saw Pam and me waiting politely by the front door.  
"Hello, Pam," he said and then, with a little more warmth, "Hey, Maggie!"  
"Hey!" I called back.  
Jason. I'd caught his name, at least.

"Sookie's brother," Pam said out of the corner of her mouth.  
The brother gave us a brief nod and put the truck in gear, driving away as fast as he could. Or so it felt.  
In the meantime, Sookie's husband had helped her out of the truck. She was small, blond, wearing a flowery dress and holding her shoes in one hand.

"Oh, Luke!" she cried and draped her arms around his neck. "I know I said I fucking hated Portia Bellefleur but I don't, really. And I had just the best time. Best time ever."  
"Most gin ever," he muttered, grinning at us apologetically.  
Beside me, Pam harrumphed.  
"A drunk fairy and a brain-damaged carrier," she muttered. "This night just keeps getting better."  
Sookie stumbled up the steps, held steady by her husband.

"Cheese and rice," she called. "Look who's here!"  
It took me a moment to figure out what she was saying. The Southerners had a whole heap of euphemisms to avoid taking the Lord's name in vain, many of them involving cheese.  
"Pamela Swynford de Beaufort ! Maggie... Maggie Something. Not Maggie Northman, anyway, that much we know."  
She threw her head back and laughed.  
"Oh my," she said to Pam as she passed her, throwing the front door open with aplomb, "we've got so much catching up to do. A round of True Blood for everyone! Except the humans," she whispered to me, giving me a theatrical wink. I bit back a smile.  
"Okay," I whispered in return.  
"Come on, Maggie," Pamela purred, her hand on the small of my back as she steered me through the door. "Don't you want to catch up?"

And suddenly it hit me: Pamela had taken me to Sookie Stackhouse so she could fill me in on all the stuff Pamela couldn't. She would never disobey her maker, oh no, but she knew how to get around him - she'd brought me to the only other human he couldn't glamour. I hesitated, thought about turning around and going back to the car, but the hand on my back gave me a firm little shove and I found myself over the threshold, standing on the rag rug in Sookie's hall.

Sookie stuck her head around the door and called out, "You can come in, Pam."  
Whereupon Pam stepped inside, looking around her as she did.

"Homey," she remarked. "Such rustic charm. I admire how you stay true to your decorating approach despite all advances in style and taste. Brave move, Sookie."  
Sookie rolled her eyes at me.  
"She's such a bitch," she said. "Come on in, y'all. Tell me to what I owe this great honour."  
She rolled the 'r' in great, almost like a drum roll.

I sat down primly on the small sofa next to Luke, who smiled at me kindly.  
Sookie positioned herself by the fireplace, her arms folded tightly across her chest.  
"We were just passing by – " Pam began as she elegantly sank down on a chair.  
"No one passes by here," Sookie interrupted.  
"Well, we were in Shreveport and we decided to pop out and see you."  
"Why?" 

Although she was swaying slightly, the expression on Sookie's face was focussed and sharp.  
Pam hit her with a wide smile. "Why, because we – "  
"Stop!" she cried and held up a hand.  
She turned to look at me.  
"I can't hear you," she said.  
"I didn't say anything."  
"No, there's a quietness. You're not thinking ... you're not thinking the right thoughts." She leaned down to peer in my face and I tried not to shrink back from the smell of gin. "Have you been glamoured?"

I glanced up at Pam and she cut in, "Yes, Sookie, that's part of the reason why we're here. Maggie's memories a teeny-weeny bit incomplete and I was hoping you could fill her in."  
"Fill her in yourself," Sookie snapped.  
"Ah, well – " Pam began and faltered.  
"You back with Eric?" she asked me in her quick-fire way.  
"Um, I – " I looked to Pam for help.  
"He's trying," she said to Sookie. "You know how ... determined he can be. This one - " she jerked a thumb in my direction "- is doing her best to keep her legs closed but I don't hold out much hope."  
"Pam, please!" I hissed warningly but she shrugged at me and mouthed, _What?_

Sookie looked at me and I knew she was reading the jumble of thoughts in my brain, the rushing half-sentences, the wondering, the doubts. The unfiltered mess.  
I tried to block them but she shook her head, like it was no use.

"Would you kindly step outside for a moment, Pam?" she asked sweetly.  
"Certainly," Pam replied in the same honeyed tone.  
They went outside on to the veranda, Sookie quietly closing the front door behind them.

In the silence, my stomach rumbled.  
"I'm so sorry," I said, embarrassed. "When you're with vampires, you don't get much opportunity to stop for a bite to eat."  
"We got some leftover chicken in the fridge," Luke said. "I can fix you a sandwich?"  
I wanted to politely demur, but my stomach growled viciously when it heard there was chicken.  
"Would you mind?" I asked. "I feel a bit bad about it."  
He stood up and held out a hand, pulling me to my feet.  
"No trouble, Irish," he said.

We sat in the kitchen in the dark and ate our sandwiches. 

He'd been about to switch on the light when we realised that Pam and Sookie had moved down the veranda, away from the living room. Now they were having a furiously whispered conversation outside the kitchen window. Luke had hesitated, looked at me, then left it discreetly off. We made our sandwiches by the light of the porch and pretended not to hear the snippets of conversation that came through the kitchen window.  
_"- it's not my problem!"_ Sookie hissed and her voice lapsed into an urgent hiss as she told Pam off.

I gingerly took a sip of my ice tea and tried not to shudder. One thing I hadn't missed in the south: cold tea with too much sugar. Ugh.

"Haven't seen you since ... since that night," Luke said in a low voice.  
He smiled at me pleasantly and pushed a bowl of taco chips my way. I took a handful; I was starving.  
"Which night?" I asked, trying to crunch quietly.  
_"You owe it to me,"_ Pam said, her voice rising, then falling, _"You owe it to her – "_  
"The night you were, you know, taken," he said, biting into his sandwich. "I'm guessing you remember that, right?"

I pretended to be busy with my own, all the while my brain was working rapidly, rapidly, trying to negotiate the next steps.  
"Oh, that's right," I said. "That night. Of course."  
"We were really worried about you," he said. 

And I knew he meant it. He had an attractive face – he wasn't classically handsome, but he had kind eyes and a nice smile and this made him endearing. I could see why Sookie had fallen for him.  
"I hope they didn't ... do anything bad to you." He ducked his eyes shyly, probably afraid of touching a nerve.  
I felt rigid with shock, but smiled at him with a grin that felt nailed to my face.  
"No, I was fine," I said lightly. "I mean, I don't know how much you guys actually know – "  
I looked at him quizzically, waiting for him to volunteer the information.  
And he did.

"Nah, not much," he said. "Jessica told us that it was organised by the King of Texas. She said the guys who took you were English – like, vampire mercenaries or something."  
"That's right," I agreed,, taking mental notes. "They were English - " I tailed off expectantly.  
"Eric doesn't know – " Pam said loudly and then, as if remembering where she was, immediately switched to a whisper. I strained to hear but I could only hear the sibilant hiss of her words.

"Yeah, I didn't exactly catch their names," Luke said. "But the dark-haired one who took you – he was the guy they called Raven, right? Jeez, he looked like a raven with that black coat flapping. Never seen a scarier motherfucker in my entire life. 'Scuse my language."  
He moved his arms like wings to show me.  
"Yeah, definitely. Scary guy," I murmured.  
_"No, Pam!"_ Sookie cried and we both looked towards the window.

"Eric was so mad," Luke continued. "I was kind of afraid when he showed up. He was prowling around outside, looking like he wanted to rip something, someone, up. Boy, – " he said and picked a chip. "I wouldn't like to get on his bad side."  
"You and me both," I smiled and he smiled back at me, co-conspirators.  
"And I know this is stupid and all, right, but I was a bit relieved when Sookie told me he had a woman. I mean, I don't think Sookie would ever do anything but, still, they've had each other's blood and there's that whole history there - "  
Aha.  
"Which is why it's so nice that you two are friends, you know. Real decent of you," he finished. "And we owe you a debt for protecting her that night."

Okay, so this was getting weird. Once again, I'd gone so far down a rabbit-hole that I couldn't scramble back out. Pretending I knew what he was talking about meant that I couldn't suddenly backtrack and start asking questions. All I could do was make the right noises and hope he would continue to feel confessional.

"My pleasure," I said and smiled beatifically at him.  
"Anyways," Luke finished, picking up our plates, "it's nice talking to someone about it. When it comes to the vamps, I kinda get the feeling they don't even realise I exist. I'm just the invisible dude that comes with Sookie, know what I mean? Pamela didn't even remember my name."  
"In fairness," I replied, "she's spectacularly bad with human names."  
Another thing I remembered about Pam: her tendency to address humans by nicknames to avoid having to learn their real names. So odious, these breathers.

We went back into the sitting room and made polite conversation about Bon Temps and Luke's job. Minutes later, Sookie came back in, looking flushed and Pam had a kind of marble whiteness to her that looked distinctly like rage.

"Maggie," Sookie said, addressing me in her frank way, "Pamela has been forbidden to talk to you about what happened between you and Eric and ... and some other stuff. She brought you up here to get me to tell you."  
That much I knew.  
"Yes, well, I'm not getting mixed up in this shit," Sookie said angrily. "You need to talk to Eric directly, do you get me? And don't take no bull from him. Ask him what happened in Bon Temps, do you hear? Ask him what happened."  
"I will," I promised.  
"You could just tell her," Pam said in a tone that suggested that she'd said this a dozen times already.  
"I'm. Not. Getting. Mixed. Up. In. This," Sookie spat viciously. 

She went over to Luke and linked her arm through his, a sign of solidarity. A sign of whose side she was on.  
"It's over, Pam. How often do I have to tell you that?" Sookie said, her voice rising.  
Pamela sighed.  
"Fine," she conceded. "You win. Grab your things, Maggie."  
I picked up my bag, extended a hand to Luke, who took it and shook it.  
"Thank you for the sandwich," I said. 

I held out my hand to Sookie but she shook her head.  
"No offence, Maggie," she said coldly, "But I want y'all to stay away from my family, you hear? I have two little girls and protecting them is my top priority nowadays. I don't want anything to do with this shit."  
"No offence taken," I replied. "I understand perfectly. Good night, Sookie."  
She seemed to relent a tiny bit, giving me a fraction of a smile.

We got into the car and she went back inside, leaving her husband on the porch to wave us off.  
Pamela would not look at me; I could tell by the death-grip she had on the steering wheel that she was mightily pissed off. 

_Well,_ I thought. _Ginger was wrong. Apparently Sookie Stackhouse and I are not bosom buddies after all._


	26. Chapter 26

In the car, Pamela almost levitated with rage.  
She said nothing, just started the car, angrily reversing before putting her foot on the gas pedal and speeding off, scattering gravel as she did.

I raised an eyebrow, staring at her, but she wouldn't even look at me. The tense silence was broken by a loud buzzing sound. She fished around in her pocket and wordlessly threw my phone in my lap.  
There was one more message from Eric:  
_In case you didn't realise: this is a summons. Where are you?_

I looked at my watch, it was half-past twelve.  
I saw him in my mind's eye, checking his phone, impatient to text me again because he wanted an answer when he wanted an answer – but too proud to write anything else.  
Eric Northman didn't do desperate.

"Oh, answer your lover boy," Pamela snapped. "Tell him what I did, where we are. I know you're dying to. I can deal with the Wrath of Northman."  
My fingers paused on the screen. "When will we be back in New Orleans?" I asked.  
She glanced at me. "About four... four-thirty."  
_I've got caught up in some human stuff_ I wrote. _I'll come by at 5. Is that ok?_  
The reply was almost instantaneous:  
_I'll be waiting._  
My stomach flipped and I grinned. When I looked up, Pam was trying to glare at me while keeping her eyes on the road – no mean feat.  
"It's okay," I said. "I didn't tell on you. And I won't, either."  
She sniffed. "Why not?"  
"Because we're friends, right? Or supposed to be friends, anyway. I think – I hope – this whole charade was well meant... on some level. I know you're trying to protect Eric."  
I swallowed. "From me."  
"I'm trying to protect him from himself," she snarled and I shrank away, taken aback.  
The car was filled with more awkward silence for a couple of minutes before she broke it with a disdainful sniff.

"Thank you," she said in a conciliatory tone. "I appreciate you keeping it to yourself."  
"It's okay," I said, rubbing my eyes. I was suddenly tired, tired of the situation, tired of the subterfuge. "You love him," I said wearily. "And you'd never hurt him. So I have to trust you on that."

She abruptly pulled the car over and flicked on the hazard lights, turning in her seat to face me.  
Startled, I allowed her to pick up my two hands and hold them in her cold fingers, the pads of her thumbs stroking them with a kind of loving menace  
"I love Eric Northman in a way no human will ever understand," she stated. "Do you understand that, carrier?"

Unexpectedly, I felt terrified. Pamela's face had a kind of eerie devotion and I suddenly realised that my past transgressions towards Eric Northman had brought me dangerously close to a slow and painful death at Pamela de Beaufort's beautifully manicured hands.  
"I understand," I whispered.  
She dropped my hands as though they were lead weights and started the car again.  
I sat back in my seat and breathed deeply till my heart had stopped racing in fear.

There was another buzzing, this time from her phone. Without taking her eyes off the road, she answered it.  
"Eric?" she said, and I froze, as though he'd be able to hear me breathe over the phone all the way down in New Orleans.  
"... Shit," she said. "Shit, shit, shit. Yes, we're on our way."  
She glanced over at me, horror-struck, all but biting her tongue - but Eric mustn't have noticed the slip.  
"... I'll call Anubis now," she said. "I'll book a return flight immediately."

She pressed the End Call button and threw her phone down into one of the cupholders.  
"We have to get back," she said. "Something has happened."  
"What?""  
She seemed to weigh it up, then said, "Oh, what the fuck? You're going to find out anyway. A detainee has, um, attempted to abscond."  
"A detainee has attempted to abscond?" I repeated incredulously. "I'm sorry: what?"  
"A fucking prisoner has fucking tried to fucking escape!" she cried and took a perilous turn onto the road heading for Shreveport.  
"The drug-addict that attacked the Canadians?" I asked.  
Pamela's mouth narrowed into a thin line and she muttered, "No, not him."  
"There was another one?"

Her mouth was pressed shut, as though she was making a physical effort to keep the words in.  
"Call Anubis," she replied instead. "Get the pilot to pull up his fangs and his pants and get us the fuck back to New Orleans straight away."  
"Yes, ma'am," I murmured, annoyed, but I picked up her phone and dialled.


	27. Chapter 27

**San Francisco, 1881**

In her mind, Pamela Kross became Pamela Swynford de Beaufort after she found the book in the puddle.  
It had just lain there, a corner already rain-swollen, the pages wrinkled. She'd glanced surreptitiously around and picked it up, stuck it under her shawl. They didn't have many books in their home: her mother didn't read English and the only book she had in Estonian was the Bible, which Pamela in turn couldn't read.

Pamela looked at the book's dirty cover: _Notable Queens of England_ by Jeremiah Pratchett Cole. Her heart leapt and she pressed the book ecstatically to her narrow chest.   
At fifteen, she was too tall, too skinny and too awkward for her age; she resented her beautifully-mended clothing that was cut from remnants or made from old clothes given to her mother in lieu of payment for her needlework. Pamela longed for elegance and luxury: she wanted to wear the satins and velvets of the girls that turned up in her mother's room every afternoon, looking to have their dresses and undergarments repaired. 

These women worked in the narrow house on the corner, a house that her mother explained was a boarding house for single women. Single women with gentleman callers: bad girls, her mother called them. Very bad girls – but very bad girls with pockets full of coins that paid for repairs on the spot. 

The girls wore too-bright colours, their narrow skirts bedecked with ruffles and fringes, huge bows on the bustles. They teased Pamela while they waited for her mother to quickly hem skirts or affix bows to bodices.  
"When are you going to start work, Pammie?" they'd ask, their eyes sly, their manner languorous.  
Mrs Kross would shush them, sewing faster as though she couldn't wait to get them out of her tiny room.

Pamela could never understand how women who seemed to spend their entire day lounging around, yawning and swatting each other with their fans could incur so much damage to their clothes, particularly their underthings. Corset buttons loosened, lace torn, combinations all but ripped to bits. More than once her mother held up this undergarment – the camisole and drawers – and tut-tutted at the torn fabric.  
"Animals," she would say.  
Pamela would longingly stroke the ruffles and ruches and say, "I wish I could dress like them."  
And her mother would slap her fingers away.  
"No, no, not for you." Even after so many years in America, her English was still broken. "You find rich man and him marry."  
"What if I don't want to marry?" Pamela asked.

Men scared her.  
She had grown up in a world of women: her mother; Mrs Cornelsen next door; the old Estonian women at church. The many, many customers who came through her mother's door to buy her knitted stockings or have something mended. She didn't know any men, except the schoolmaster, Mr Figgis, who barely knew she existed.

"What can you do else?" snapped her mother. "You are not clever to become school teacher. What can you do else?"  
And there it was.   
If Pamela was not clever enough to become a school teacher – which she wasn't – the only thing she might do was marry. The prospect scared her: what man would find her attractive? With her bony face and washed-out complexion, her blond hair unfashionably straight. She wanted to set her hair in rags to give herself curls like little girls on the street, but her mother refused to let her.  
"Do you want to look like the bad girls?" she would say, jerking her head in the direction of the corner house.  
_Yes,_ Pamela thought. _Oh yes._

But now she had a new favourite book, her only book.   
She read about Queen Mathilda, Queen Elizabeth, Mary Queen of Scots, enthralled by the stifling prose of Mr J.P. Cole. But her favourite queen was undoubtedly the wife of John of Gaunt, Katherine Swynford de Beaufort. The woman that had been his mistress for many long years, had borne his children, been separated from him when he married another woman – and reunited with him in marriage when his wife died. It was impossibly romantic and Katherine de Beaufort had been a renowned beauty. Her name rolled off Pamela's tongue: Swynford de Beaufort. Then and there, Pamela promised herself that this would be the name that she would take when she was grown up.   
Why not? Kross was her father's name and she hadn't seen him since she was a toddler – why feel any loyalty to the name of her forefathers when she knew not one of them?

She shut the book, trying to press the wrinkled pages together. She would grow up and be rich and powerful. She would leave this cold little room where her mother worked by oil lamp, hunched over her needles. She would have her own house, decorated with the most sumptuous of fabrics, and wear clothes that had oodles of ruffles, ruches, bows and frills.

She would become Pamela Swynford de Beaufort. A _lady._

**San Francisco 1905**

"Who is this?" the man asked, squinting to look through the lenses on his nose. He did not look up from the timepiece he was dissecting, like a surgeon, removing tiny parts with a fine metal instrument.

"David Birnbaum, may I introduce you to my new progeny, Pamela Swynford de Beaufort?" Eric said with a flourish.  
The man finally looked up and Pamela saw he was one of Northman's kind: his face was deathly white in the light of the lamp.  
 _One of our kind,_ Pamela corrected herself.

The other man was small with almost elfin features, and the fingers holding the metal tool were fine-boned and smaller than hers.  
"So that is what has kept you on the Barbary Coast this past week," Birnbaum said drily. "You were ... preoccupied."  
He turned back to the watch. "You did not tell me you had plans to create a child," he said coldly.

Eric threw himself on to a covered chair and pointed at a chintz sofa, indicating Pamela should sit.  
"It just happened," he said airily and Pamela got a feeling that the other vampire intimidated him a little, despite the fact that Eric was a good head taller than the man at the desk.

Pam took a seat and looked around.  
The room was a gentleman's sitting room: dark green curtains and dark green wallpaper, with swirls of gold, like palm fronds. When she had left the brothel, her hand firmly enclosed in Eric's, she had hoped that she would be spirited away to somewhere glamorous – New York or Paris. Instead, he had taken her to a dark house on the other side of town. One that needed to be kept by a small army of servants, but appeared dark and empty, except for the small vampire in the drawing room.

It wasn't quite as she had imagined but it was close enough. It was, after all, the thing that she and all the other girls had dreamed of: that some wealthy client would see them for the lady they truly were and free them from their half-life on the fringe of society. When Pam had handed over the keys and the books to Lily, her second-in-command, the younger woman had been almost sick with envy.  
"Leaving to get married?" she'd sighed wistfully. "Lucky you, Pam."

And Pamela'd had to screw her eyes shut to ignore the thumping of Lily's blood, the proximity to her warm flesh. Eric had warned her that the first months and weeks would be hard; he had insisted that he would hunt for her till she learned to feed without killing – or accidentally turning.

Birnbaum finished turned a screw and then swivelled his chair around to look at Pamela.  
"A whore," he said directly.  
"You do jump to conclusions, David," Eric drawled. "Maybe she's a lady."  
"She's a whore," Birnbaum said, looking her up and down, taking in the gaudy glass pendant around her neck, the pink dress with the over-sized bow, the heavy eye make-up and rouge. "It's written all over her. Really, Eric? She must travel with us till she can fend for herself and you choose as a companion a whore?"  
"I didn't choose her," he said patiently. "It just happened."  
"It behoves you to choose well," Birnbaum said in the same patient tone. "Not just for your sake, but for mine as well."

Pamela cleared her throat discreetly to remind him that she was there.  
"How did you become a doxy, Miss de Beaufort?" Birnbaum said, removing his pince-nez. "Were you abandoned by some scoundrel? Left with child and without means?"  
She cleared her throat.  
"No, sir," she said. "I took to it voluntarily."  
Birnbaum laughed and slapped his thighs. Eric perked up, curious.  
"An honest whore, to boot. Well, tell all, Miss de Beaufort."  
"My mother died when I was sixteen and I had no family, no one to take me in. A ... a lady from a neighbouring house offered me lodgings with her girls. I was ... I was happy to take them."

She had been happy to take them because there was nowhere to go: once she had spent her mother's meagre savings, eking them out by living on stale bread and fruit stolen from barrows, she realised that she had no other means of earning money and the landlord was banging on the door daily, looking for rent or for something of equal value – said with a lascivious look at Pamela's chest as she pushed the door shut in his face. Frightened, she went through her options. She thought she might take a job in a shop but didn't even know how one went about doing it. When she plucked up the courage to ask at a haberdasher's, the man behind the counter had taken in her scuffed boots and the frayed collar, and she'd been politely asked to leave.

"And you enjoyed being a little wagtail?" Birnbaum said, sounding amused.  
Pamela gave him a tight smile in return.  
"One makes the best of it," she said in her most supercilious way.

The madam from the corner house had seen her pass by, day after day, and then had finally stopped her on the street. She started Pamela off cleaning rooms and washing bed linens in exchange for an attic bed and three meals a day. Pamela had found it terrifying: the men with their beery breath, their grabbing hands, and she'd developed a sharp tongue and a sharper elbow to keep them at arm's length. As the years passed, she'd found it necessary to develop other skills and she'd found her own little clientele, mostly men that seemed to like being treated with disdain. If truth be told, she found the whole business messy and inelegant and would probably have endured it without further thought till one night a wealthy banker had paid a spectacular amount of money for an evening with two women. 

Pamela was chosen along with a dark-haired woman from Mexico called Rita, who made it her business to show Pamela how superfluous men – particularly rotund, middle-aged men - were to the pleasure of women.

"And you somehow managed to snare the illustrious Mr Northman and persuaded him to make you of our kind," Birnbaum said. "Well done, Miss de Beaufort."  
He carefully put his tools away, wrapping them in a leather cloth.  
"Who _are_ you?" Pamela asked, emboldened.  
"I am the King of California," he replied, without a trace of irony or facetiousness.  
"The king - ?"  
"Yes, little vampire. Our territory is split into Kingdoms, and Queendoms, if you will. I am the King of California. You are in my territory, you are now, officially, my subject, my thrall."  
"So you – you work for him?" she asked, turning to Eric. He nodded.  
"I am my liege lord's ... how do I explain it, David?"  
"My right-hand man," Birnbaum replied with a smile. "I am the brains. Mr Northman provides the brawn."  
"The King of California? So that means we'll be staying here?" she said, unable to stop the panic rising in her voice. "Here in San Francisco?"  
What about her dreams of New York? Travelling to London, visiting Paris? God damn it.

Birnbaum looked over at Eric, who shrugged and cleared his throat.  
"Well, actually, his majesty would like to move away. Perhaps to Sacramento," he said smoothly.  
Sacramento? Pamela tried not to curse: God's teeth! Sacramento was a thousand times worse.

"But why?" she implored, suddenly changing tack. "What's wrong with San Francisco?"  
Birnbaum shook his head.   
"Something is wrong," he said. "But I don't know what. Something is coming."  
Pamela looked to Eric for help but he shook his head as well.  
"The old ones think they can predict the future," Eric said with a grin. "He would like us to move our goods and chattels inland to a sweet little backwater because he has a feeling."  
"Is he – are you older than Eric?" Pamela asked, unable to hide her curiosity. Birnbaum looked to be in his twenties, with his baby-smooth skin and delicate bones.  
Birnbaum and Northman laughed.  
"Much older," Birnbaum said. "Take his age and that again, that is how old I am."  
Pamela could barely fathom it. "That would make you ... two thousand years old!" she cried.  
"It would," the small vampire agreed. 

He stood up and dusted down his pants, brushing away imaginary fluff.  
"I have to feed. See to it that she has a coffin. I must say, this is very vexing, Eric. I have half a mind to administer unto her the True Death and be done with it."  
Said so casually, Pamela barely understood the meaning or the portent of his words.  
Then she realised and looked to Eric in horror.

In a blur, Eric was standing in front of her, his fangs extended.  
"No," he said dully. "Or you take me, too."

Birnbaum looked at him expressionlessly.  
"Calm down, Northman," he said. "I have made up my mind that she may stay. But you look after her, do you hear? I don't even want to know she's here."  
Northman nodded silently and remained in front of her till Birnbaum left the room, Eric's long arms slightly outstretched as though he were shielding her from the other vampire.  
"Thank you," Pamela said, standing up, laying a hand on his back.

She felt him tense beneath her touch and then turned to face her.  
Eric cupped her cheek in his large hand.   
"For as long as I exist," he said, his voice grave, "I will always protect you. This is the bond between maker and progeny, a sacred bond, Pamela."  
"And for as long as I exist, I will protect you," she said eagerly but Eric laughed.  
"I'm sure you will do your very best, little vampire," he said warmly and bent to kiss her lips.


End file.
